UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


FROM  THE    LIBRARY   OF 

BENJAMIN  PARKE  AVERY. 


GIFT  OF  MRS.  AVERY. 

*  August,  1896. 

Accessions  No.loO  nil         Class  No. 


THE 


PICTURE   OF   ST.    JOHN. 


BY 


BAYARD     TAYLOR. 


OF  TH1 

UITX71RSITY 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS 

1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

BAYARD     TAYLOR, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


F>r 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE. 


IN  regard  to  the  subject  of  this  poem  I  have 
nothing  to  say.  It  grew  naturally  out  of  certain 
developments  in  my  own  mind ;  and  the  story, 
unsuggested  by  any  legend  or  detached  incident 
whatever,  shaped  itself  to  suit  the  theme.  The 
work  of  time,  written  only  as  its  own  necessity 
prompted,  and  finished  with  the  care  and  con 
science  which  such  a  venture  demands,  I  surren 
der  it  to  the  judgment  of  the  reader. 

The  form  of  the  stanza  which  I  have  adopted, 
however,  requires  a  word  of  explanation.  I  have 
endeavored  to  strike  a  middle  course  between  the 
almost  inevitable  monotony  of  an  unvarying  stan 
za,  in  a  poem  of  this  length,  and  the  loose  char- 


iv  INTRODUCTORY   NOTE. 

acter  which  the  heroic  measure  assumes  when 
arbitrarily  rhymed,  without  the  check  of  regularly 
recurring  divisions.  It  seemed  to  me  that  this 
object  might  be  best  accomplished  by  adhering 
rigidly  to  the  measure  and  limit  of  .the  stanza, 
yet  allowing  myself  freedom  of  rhyme  within  that 
limit.  The  ottava  rima  is  undoubtedly  better 
adapted  for  the  purposes  of  a  romantic  epic  than 
either  the  Spenserian  stanza  or  the  heroic  coup 
let  ;  but  it  needs  the  element  of  humor  (as  in 
Byron's  "  Don  Juan " )  to  relieve  its  uniform 
sweetness.  On  the  other  hand,  the  proper  com 
pactness  and  strength  of  rhythm  can  with  difficulty 
be  preserved  in  a  poem  where  all  form  of  stanza 
is  discarded.  My  aim  has  been,  as  far  as  pos 
sible,  to  combine  the  advantages  and  lessen  the 
objections  of  both. 

I  know  of  but  one  instance  in  which  the  exper 
iment  has  been  even  partially  tried,  —  the  "  Obe- 
ron "  of  Wieland,  wherein  the  rhymes  are  wil 
fully  varied,  and  sometimes  the  measure,  the 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE.  V 

stanza  almost  invariably  closing  with  an  Alexan 
drine.  In  the  present  case,  I  have  been  unable 
to  detect  any  prohibitory  rule  in  the  genius  of 
our  language ;  and  the  only  doubt  which  sug 
gested  itself  to  my  mind  was  that  the  ear,  be 
coming  swiftly  accustomed  to  the  arrangement 
of  rhyme  in  one  stanza,  might  expect  to  find  it 
reproduced  in  the  next.  I  believe,  however,  that 
such  disappointment,  if  it  should  now  and  then 
occur,  will  be  very  transitory,  —  that  even  an 
unusually  delicate  ear  will  soon  adjust  itself  to 
the  changing  order,  and  find  that  the  varied 
harmony  at  which  I  have  aimed  (imperfectly  as 
I  may  have  succeeded)  compensates  for  the 
lack  of  regularity.  At  times,  I  confess,  the  temp 
tation  to  close  with  an  Alexandrine  was  very 
great ;  but  it  was  necessary  to  balance  the  one 
apparent  license  by  a  rigid  adherence  to  the 
customary  form  in  all  other  respects.  Hence, 
also,  I  have  endeavored,  as  frequently  as  possible, 
to  use  but  three  rhymes  in  a  stanza,  in  order  to 


vi  INTRODUCTORY    NOTE. 

strengthen  my  experiment  with  an  increased  ef 
fect  of  melody.  I  have  found,  since  the  com 
pletion  of  the  poem,  that  it  contains  more  than 
seventy  variations  in  the  order  of  rhyme,  not  all 
of  which,  of  course,  can  be  pronounced  equally 
agreeable :  nor  does  this  freedom  involve  less  labor 
than  a  single  form  of  stanza,  because  the  varia 
tions  must  be  so  arranged  as  to  relieve  and  sup 
port  each  other.  My  object  has  been,  not  to 
escape  the  laws  which  Poetry  imposes,  but  to 
select  a  form  which  gives  greater  appearance  of 
unrestrained  movement,  and  more  readily  reflects 
the  varying  moods  of  the  poem. 


CONTENTS. 


PROEM. 

PACK 


To  THE  ARTISTS  . 

BOOK    I. 


THE  ARTIST 


BOOK    II. 
THE  WOMAN         .........      61 

BOOK    III. 
THE  CHILD  ..........     117 

BOOK    IV. 
THE  PICTURE        .........     171 


PROEM. 


TO    THE    ARTISTS. 

i. 
~Y)  E CAUSE  no  other  dream  my  childhood  knew 

Than  your  bright  Goddess  sends,  —  that  earliest 
Her  face  I  saw,  and  from  her  bounteous  breast, 
All  others  dry,  the  earliest  nurture  drew; 
And  since  the  hope,  so  lovely,  was  not  true, 
To  write  my  life  in  colors,  —  win  a  place 
Among  your  ranks,  though  humble,    yet  with  grace 
That  might  accord  me  brotherhood  with  you: 

i  A 


2  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

II. 

Because  the  dream,  thus  cherished,  gave  my  life 
Its  first  faint  sense  of  beauty,  and  became, 
Even  when  the  growing  years  to  other  strife 
Led  forth  my  feet,  a  shy,  secluded  flame: 
And  ye  received  me,  when  our  pathways  met, 
As  one  long  parted,  but  of  kindred  fate ; 
And  in  one  heaven  our  kindred  stars  are  set : 
To  you,  my  Brethren,  this  be  dedicate! 

in. 

And  though  some  sportive  nymph  the  channel  turned, 
And  led  to  other  fields  mine  infant  rill, 
The  sense  of  fancied  destination  still 
Leaps  in  its  waves,  and  will  not  be  unlearned. 
I  charge  not  Fate1  with  having  done  me  wrong ; 
Much  hath  she  granted,  though  so  much  was  spurned ; 
But  leave  the  keys  of  Color,  silent  long, 
And  pour  my  being  through  the  stops  of  Song! 


PROEM.  3 

IV. 

Even  as  one  breath  the  organ-pipe  compels 

To  yield  that  note  which  through  the  minster  swells 

In  chorded  thunder,  and  the  hollow  lyre 

Beneath  its  gentler  touches  to  awake 

The  airy  monotones  that  fan  desire, 

And  thrills  the  fife  with  blood  of  battle,  —  so 

Our  natures  from  one  source  their  music  take, 

And  side  by  side  to  one  far  Beauty  flow! 

v. 

And  I  have  measured,  in  fraternal  pride, 
Your  reverence,  your  faith,  your  patient  power 
Of  stern  self-abnegation ;  and  have  tried 
The  range  between  your  brightest,  darkest  hour, 
The  path  of  chill  neglect,  and  that  so  fair 
With  praise  upspringing  like  a  wind-sown  flower: 
But,  whether  thorns  or  amaranths  ye  wear, 
Your  speech  is  mine,  your  sacrifice,  your  prayer! 


4  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.   JOHN. 

VI. 

Permit  me,  therefore,  ye  who  nearest  stand, 
Among  the  worthiest,  and  kindliest  known 
In  contact  of  our  lives,  to  take  the  hand 
Whose  grasp  assures  me  I. am  not  alone; 
For  thus  companioned,  I  shall  find  the  tone 
Of  flowing  song,  and  all  my  breath  command. 
Your  names  I  veil  from  those  who  should  not  see; 
Not  from  yourselves,  my  Friends,  and  not  from  me! 

VII. 

You,  underneath  whose  brush  the  autumn  day 
Draws  near  the  sunset  which  it  never  finds, — 
Whose  art  the  smoke  of  Indian-Summer  binds 
Beyond  the  west-wind's  power  to  breathe  away: 
Who  fix  the  breakers  in  their  lifted  grace 
And  stretch  the  sea-horizon,  dim  and  gray, 
I  '11  call  you  OPAL,  —  so  your  tints  enchase 
The  pearly  atmospheres  wherein  they  play. 


PROEM-.   ' 

^ 


VIII. 

And  you,  who  love  the  brown  October  field, 

The  lingering  leaves  that  flutter  as  they  cling, 

And  each  forlorn  but  ever-lovely  thing, — 

To  whom  elegiac  Autumn  hath  revealed 

Her  sweetest  dirges,  BLOODSTONE  :  for  the  hue 

Of  sombre  meadows  to  your  palette  cleaves, 

And  lowering  skies,  with  sunlight  breaking  through, 

And  flecks  of  crimson  on  the  scattered  leaves! 

IX. 

You,  TOPAZ,  clasp  the  full-blown  opulence 
Of  Summer:   many  a  misty  mountain-range 
Or  smoky  valley,  specked  with  warrior-tents, 
Basks  on  your  canvas:    then,  with  grander  change, 
We  climb  to  where   your  mountain  twilight  gleams 
In  spectral  pomp,  or  nurse  the  easeful  sense 
Which  through  your  Golden  Day  forever  dreams 
By  lakes,  and  sunny  hills,  and  falling  streams. 


6  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

X. 

You  banish  color  from  your  cheerful  cell, 

O  PAROS!   but  a  stern  imperial  form 

Stands  in  the  marble  moonlight  where  you  dwell, 

A  Poet's  head,  with  grand  Ionian  beard, 

And  Phidian  dreams,  that  shine  against  the  storm 

Of  toilful  life,  the  white  robe  o'er  them  cast 

Of  breathless  Beauty :   yours  the  art,  endeared 

To  men  and  gods,  first  born,  enduring  last. 

XI. 

You,  too,  whom  how  to  name  I  may  not  guess, 

Except  the  jacinth  and  the  ruby,  blent, 

The  native  warmth  of  life  might  represent, 

Which,  drawn  from  barns  and   homesteads,  you  express, 

Or  vintage  revels,  round  the  maple-tree; 

Or  when  the  dusky  race  you  quaintly  dress 

In  art  that  gives  them  finer  liberty, — 

Made  by  your  pencil,  ere  by  battle,  free! 


PROEM. 

* 


XII. 

Where'er  my  feet  have  strayed,  whatever  shore 
I  visit,  there  your  venturous  footprints  cling. 
From  Chimborazo  unto  Labrador 
One  sweeps  the  Continent  with  eagle  wing, 
To  dip  his  brush  in  tropic  noon,  or  fires 
Of  Arctic  night:   one  sets  his  seal  upon 
Far  Colorado's  cleft,  colossal  spires, 
And  lone,  snow-kindled  cones  of  Oregon. 

XIII. 

Another  "through  the  mystic  moonlight  floats 
That  silvers  Venice;   and  another  sees 
The  blazoned  galleys  and  the  gilded  boats 
Bring  home  her  Doges:   Andalusian  leas, 
Gray  olive-slopes,  and  mountains  sun-embrowned 
Entice  another,  and  from  ruder  ground 
Of  old  Westphalian  homes  another  brings 
Enchanted  memories  of  the  meanest  things. 


THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XIV. 

To  each  and  all,  the  hand  of  fellowship ! 
A  poet's  homage  (should  that  title  fall 
From  other  lips  than  mine)  to  each  and  all ! 
For,  whether  this  pale  star  of  Song  shall  dip 
To  swift  forgetfulness,  or  burn  beside 
Accepted  lamps  of  Art's  high  festival, 
Its  flame  was  kindled  at  our  shrines  allied, 
In  double  faith,  and  from  a  twofold  call ! 


THE 


PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN 


BOOK    I. 


1* 


THE 


PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN 


BOOK   I. 

THE    ARTIST 


S~*  OMPLETE  the  altar  stands :  my  task  is  done. 

Awhile  from  sacred  toil  and  silent  prayer 
I  rest,  and  never  shone  the  vale  so  fair 
As  now,  beneath  the  mellow  autumn  sun, 
And  overbreathed  by  tinted  autumn  air! 
In  drowsy  murmurs  slide  the  mountain  rills, 
And,  save  of  light,  the  whole  wide  heaven  is  bare 
Above  the  happy  slumber  of  the  hills. 


12  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

II. 

Here,  as  a  traveller  whose  feet  have  clomb 
A  weary  mountain-slope,  may  choose  his  seat, 
And  resting,  track  the  ways  that  he  hath  come, — 
The  broken  landscapes,  level  far  below, 
The  turf  that  kissed,  the  flints  that  tore  his  feet, 
And  each  dim  speck  that  once  was  bliss  or  woe, — 
I  breathe  a  space,  between  two  sundered  lives, 
And  view  what  now  is  ended,  what  survives. 

in. 

For,  truly,  he  that  reverently  holds 
The  wonder  of  his  being,  bowed  in  awe 
Of  what  divine  or  dread  himself  infolds, 
And  boundless  liberty  and  sternest  law 
Commingled,  he  alone  is  counted  worth 
The  veil  from  Life's  dim  countenance  to  draw, — 
To  face  the  solemn  facts  of  Death  and  Birth, 
And  break  his  path  across  the  wilds  of  Earth ! 


THE    ARTIST.  13 

IV. 

Such  as  I  am,  I  am:  in  soul  and  sense 
Distinct,  existing  in  my  separate  right, 
And  though  a  Power,  beyond  my  clouded  sight, 
Spun  from  a  thousand  gathered  filaments 
My  cord  of  life,  within  its  inmost  core 
That  life  is  mine :  its  torture,  its  delight, 
Eepeat  not  those  that  ever  were  before 
Or  ever  shall  be:  mine  are  Day  and  Night. 

v. 

God  gives  to  most  an  order  which  supplies 

Their  passive  substance,  and  they  move  therein. 

To  some  He  grants  the  beating  wings  that  rise 

In  endless  aspiration,  till  they  win 

An  awful  vision  of  a  deeper  sin 

And  loftier  virtue,  other  earth  and  skies: 

And  those  their  common  help  from  each  may  draw, 

But  these  must  perish,  save  they  find  the  law. 


14  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

VI. 

Vain  to  evade  and  useless  to  bewail 
My  fortune !     One  among  the  scattered  few 
Am  I:  by  sharper  lightning,  sweeter  dew 
Refreshed  or  blasted,  —  on  a  wilder  gale 
Caught  up  and  whirled  aloft,  till,  hither  borne, 
My  story  pauses.     Ere  I  drop  the  veil 
Once  let  me  take  the  Past  in  calm  review, 
Then  eastward  turn,  and  front  the  riper  morn. 

VII. 

What  sire  begat  me  and  what  mother  nursed, 
What  hills  the  blue  frontiers  of  Earth  I  thought, 
Or  how  my  young  ambition  scaled  them  first, 
It  matters  not:  but  I  was  finely  wrought 
Beyond  their  elements  from  whom  I  came. 
A  nimbler  life  informed  mine  infant  frame: 
The  gauzy  wings  some  Psyche-fancy  taught 
To  flutter,  soulless  custom  could  not  tame. 


THE    ARTIST.  15 

VIII. 

Our  state  was  humble,  —  yet  above  the  dust, 
If  deep  below  the  stars,  —  the  state  that  feeds 
Impatience,  hinting  yet  denying  needs, 
And  thus,  on  one  side  ever  forward  thrust 
And  on  the  other  cruelly  repressed, 
My  nature  grew,  —  a  wild-flower  in  the  weeds,  — 
And  hurt  by  ignorant  love,  that  fain  had  blessed, 
I  sought  some  other  bliss  wherein  to  rest. 

IX. 

fAnd,  wandering  forth,  a  child  that  could  not  know 
The  thing  for  which  he  pined,  in  sombre  woods 
And  echo-haunted  mountain-solitudes 
I  learned  a  rapture  from  the  blended  show 
Of  form  and  color,  felt  the  soul  that  broods 
In  lonely  scenes,  the  moods  that  come  and  go 
O'er  wayward  Nature,  making  her  the  haunt 
Of  Art's  forerunner,  Love's  eternal  want. 


16  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

X. 

Long  ere  the  growing  instinct  reached  my  hand, 
It  filled  my  brain :  a  pang  of  joy  was  born, 
When,  soft  as  dew,  across  the  dewy  land 
Of  Summer,  leaned  the  crystal-hearted  Morn; 
And  when  the  lessening  day  shone  yellow-cold 
On  fallow  glebe  and  stubble,  I  would  stand 
And  feel  a  dumb  despair  its  wings  unfold, 
And  wring  my  hands,  and  weep  as  one  forlorn. 

XI. 

Ah,  formless  need,  uncomprehended  pain 

Of  childhood !     "Wings  that  beat  and  bleed  in  vain, 

Not  knowing  yet  the  highways  of  the  air! 

What  laggard  years,  before  my  life  could  guess 

How  to  expend  its  burning  eagerness 

For  voice  or  deed!     The  sense  that  fed  my  prayer 

Grew  into  knowledge,  as  it  outward  sent 

Its  force,  and  made  my  hand  its  instrument. 


THE    ARTIST.  J7 

XII. 

At  first  in  play,  but  soon  with  heat  and  stir 
Of  joy  that  hails  discovered  power,  I  tried 
To  mimic  form,  and  taught  mine  eye  to  guide 
The  unskilled  fingers.     Praise  became  a  spur 
To  overtake  success,  for  in  that  vale 
The  simple  people's  wonder  did  not  fail, 
Nor  vulgar  prophecies,  which  yet  confer 
The  first  delicious  thrills  of  faith  and  pride. 

xm. 

The  path  once  found,  my  flexile  nature  took 
Such  aid  and  guidance  as  around  me  lay, 
And  hurrying  onward,  as  an  upland  brook 
That  shifts  and  whirls  by  grassy  cape  and  bay, 
Once  gained  an  outlet  to  the  falling  dells, 
Leaps  into  flashing  purpose,  leapt  away 
My  heart  through  gracious  dreams  and  lovely  spells, 
Its  goal  detected,  bright  with  distant  day ! 


18  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XIV. 

So,  as  on  shining  pinions  lifted  o'er 
The  perilous  bridge  of  boyhood,  I  advanced. 
In  warmer  air  the  misty  Maenads  danced, 
And  Sirens  sang  on  many  a  rising  shore, 
And  Glory's  handmaids  beckoned  me  to  choose 
The  freshest  of  .he  unworn  wreaths  they  bore ; 
So  gracious  Fortune  showed,  so  fair  the  hues 
Wherewith  she  paints  her  cloud-built  avenues ! 

xv. 

How  rosed  with  morn,  how  angel-innocent, 
Thus  looking  back,  I  see  my  lightsome  youth  ! 
Each  thought  a  wondrous  bounty  Heaven  had  lent, 
And  each  illusion  was  a  radiant  truth  ! 
Each  sorrow  dead  bequeathed  a  young  desire, 
Each  hovering  doubt  or  cloud  of  discontent 
So  interfused  with  Faith's  pervading  fire, 
That  to  achieve  seemed  light  as  to  aspire  ! 


THE    ARTIST.  19 

XVI. 

Ere  up  through  all  this  airy  ecstasy 
The  clamorous  pulses  of  the  senses  beat, 
And  half  the  twofold  man,  maturing  first, 
Usurped  its  share  of  life,  and  bade  me  see 
The  ways  of  pleasure  opening  for  my  feet, 
I  stood  alone  :  the  tender  breast  that  nursed, 
The  loins  from  whence  I  sprang,  alike  were  cold, 
And  mine  the  humble  roof,  the  scanty  gold. 

XVII. 

And  I  was  free  ;  though  sad,  cast  forth  adrift, 
Not  unconsoled :  the  art  my  soul  embraced 
With  undivided  love  had  power  to  lift 
The  loneliness  of  grief.     Through  many  a  rift 
New  lights  of  hope  the  sudden  sorrow  chased, 
And  from  my  own  rekindled  dreams  I  drew 
Courage  to  claim  and  patience  to  pursue 
Success,  whose  brimming  cup  I  burned  to  taste ! 


20  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XVIII. 

The  pale,  cold  azure  of  my  mountain  sky 
Became  a  darkness :  Arber's  head  unshorn 
No  temple  crowned,  —  not  here  could  fame  be  born ; 
And,  nor  with  gold  nor  knowledge  weighted,  I 
Set  forth,  and  o'er  the  green  Bavarian  land, 
A  happy  wanderer,  fared :  the  hour  was  nigh 
When,  in  the  home  of  Art,  my  feet  should  stand 
Where  Time  and  Power  have  kissed  the  Painter's  hand ! 

XIX. 

O,  sweet  it  was,  when,  from  that  bleak  abode 
Where  avalanches  grind  the  pines  to  dust, 
And  crouching  glaciers  down  the  hollows  thrust 
Their  glittering  claws,  I  took  the  sunward  road, 
Making  my  guide  the  torrent,  that  before 
My  steps  ran  shouting,  giddy  with  its  joy, 
And  tossed  its  white  hands  like  a  gamesome  boy, 
And  sprayed  its  rainbow  frolics  o'er  and  o'er! 


THE    ARTIST.  21 

XX. 

Full-orbed,  in  rosy  dusk,  the  perfect  moon 
That  evening  shone :  the  torrent's  noise,  afar, 
No  longer  menaced,  but  with  mellow  tune 
Sang  to  the  twinkle  of  a  silver  star, 
Above  the  opening  valley.     "  Italy  ! " 
The  moon,  the  star,  the  torrent,  said  to  me, — 
"  Sleep  thou  in  peace,  the  morning  will  unbar 
These  Alpine  gates,  and  give  thy  world  to  thee ! " 

XXI. 

And  morning  did  unfold  the  jutting  capes 
Of  chestnut-wooded  hills,  that  held  embayed 
Warm  coves  of  fruit,  the  pine's  ^Eolian  shade, 
Or  pillared  bowers,  blue  with  suspended  grapes ;  — 
A  land  whose  forms  some  livelier  grace  betrayed ; 
Where  motion  sang  and  cheerful  color  laughed, 
And  only  gloomed,  amid  the  dancing  shapes 
Of  vine  and  bough,  the  pointed  cypress-shaft ! 


22  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXII. 

On,  —  on,  through  broadening  vale  and  brightening  sun 
I  walked,  and  hoary  in  their  old  repose 
The  olives  twinkled :  many  a  terrace  rose, 
With  marbles  crowned  and  jasmine  overrun, 
And  orchards  where  the  ivory  silk-worm  spun. 
On  leafy  palms  outspread,  its  pulpy  fruit 
The  fig-tree  held ;  and  last,  the  charm  to  close, 
A  dark-eyed  shepherd  piped  a  reedy  flute. 

XXIII. 

f 

My  heart  beat  loud :  I  walked  as  in  a  dream 

Where  simplest  actions,  touched  with  marvel,  seem 

Enchanted  yet  familiar :  for  I  knew 

The  orchards,  terraces,  and  breathing  flowers, 

The  tree  from  Adam's  garden,  and  the  blue 

Sweet  sky  behind  the  light  aerial  towers ; 

And  that  young  faun  that  piped,  had  piped  before,  — 

I  knew  my  home :  the  exile  now  was  o'er ! 


THE    ARTIST. 

XXIV. 

And  when  the  third  rich  day  declined  his  lids, 
I  floated  where  the  emerald  waters  fold 
Gein-gardens,  fairy  island-pyramids, 
Whereon  the  orange  hangs  his  globes  of  gold,  — 
"Which  aloes  crown  with  white,  colossal  plume, 
Above  the  beds  where  lavish  Nature  bids 
Her  sylphs  of  odor  endless  revel  hold, 
Her  zones  of  flowers  in  balmy  congress  bloom! 

XXV. 

I  hailed  them  all,  and  hailed  beyond,  the  plain; 
The  palace-fronts,  on  distant  hills  uplift, 
White  as  the  morning-star;   the  streams  that  drift 
In  sandy  channels  to  the  Adrian  main : 
Till  one  rich  eve,  with   duplicated  stain 
Of  crimson  sky  and  wave,  disclosed  to  me 
The  domes  of  Venice,  anchored  on  the  sea, 
Far-off,  —  an  airy  city  of  the  brain  ! 


24  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXVI. 

Forth  from  the  shores  of  Earth  we  seemed  to  float, 
Drawn  by  that  vision,  —  hardly  felt  the  breeze 
That  left  one  glassy  ripple  from  the  boat 
To  break  the  smoothness  of  the  silken  seas; 
And  far  and  near,  as  from  the  lucent  air, 
Came  vesper  chimes  and  wave-born  melodies. 
So  might  one  die,  if  Death  his  soul  could  bear 
So  gently,  Heaven  before  him  float  so  fair! 

XXVII. 

This  was  the  gate  to  Artists'  Fairyland. 
The  palpitating  waters  kissed  the  shores, 
Gurgled  in  sparkling  coils  beneath  the  oars, 
And  lapped  the  marble  stairs  on  either  hand, 
Summoning  Beauty  to  her  holiday; 
While  noiseless  gondolas  at  palace-doors 
Waited,  and  over  all,  in  charmed  delay, 
San  Marco's  moon  gazed  from  her  golden  stand! 


THE    ARTIST.  25 


XXVIII. 

A  silent  city !   where  no  clattering  wheels 

Jar  the  white  pavement:    cool  the  streets,  and  dumb, 

Save  for  a  million  whispering  waves,  which  come 

To  light  their  mellow  darkness:    where  the  peals 

Of  Trade's  harsh  clarions  never  vex  the  ear, 

But  the  wide  blue  above,  the  green  below, 

Her  pure  Palladian  palaces  insphere, — 

Piles,  on  whose  steps  the  grass  shall  never  grow ! 

XXIX. 

There  found  I  rest,  and  there  the  world  I  sought, — 

Eternal  beauty  and  eternal  joy, 

The  flower  of  life,  the  bright  result  of  thought, 

The  perfect  Art,  which  nothing  can  destroy ; 

For,  once  embodied,  its  creation  caught 

The  right  to  be :    and  I,  with  pulses  warm, 

Took  to  my  brain  each  grand  and  lovely  form, 

To  build  myself  from  what  the  Masters  wrought. 


26  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXX. 

I  sat  within  the  courts  of  Veronese 

And  saw  his  figures  breathe  luxurious  air, 

And  felt  the  sunshine  of  their  lustrous  hair: 

Beneath  the  shade  of  Titian's  awful  trees 

I  stood,  and  watched  the  Martyr's  brow  grow  cold : 

Then  came  Giorgione,  with  his  brush  of  gold, 

To  paint  the  dames  that  make   his  memory  fair, — 

The  happy  dames  that  never  shall  be  old! 

XXXI. 

But  most  I  lingered  in  that  matchless  hall 
Where  soars  Madonna  with  adoring  arms 
Outspread,  while  deepening  glories  round  her  fall, 
And  every  feature  of  her  mortal  charms 
Becomes  immortal,  at  the  Father's  call: 
Beneath  her,  silver-shining   cherubs  fold 
The  clouds  that  bear  her,  slowly  heavenward  rolled 
The  Sacred  Mystery  broodeth  over  all ! 


THE    ARTIST.  27 

XXXII. 

And  still,  as  one  asleep,  I  turned  away 
To  see  the  crimson  of  her  mantle  burn 
In  sunset  clouds,  the  pearly  deeps  of  day 
Filled  with  cherubic  faces,  —  ah,    to  spurn 
My  hopeless  charts  of  pictures  yet  to  be, 
And  feed  the  fancies  of  a  swift  despair, 
Which  mocked  me  from  the  azure  arch  of  air, 
And  from  the  twinkling  beryl  of  the  sea ! 

XXXIII. 

If  this  bright  bloom  were  inaccessible 
Which  clad  the  world,  and  thus  my  senses  stung, 
How  could  I  catch  the  mingled  tints  that  clung 
To  cheek  and  throat,  and  softly  downward  fell 
In  poise  of  shoulders  and  the  breathing  swell 
Of  woman's  bosom?     How  the  life  in  eyes, 
The  glory  on  the  loosened  hair  that  lies, 
The  nameless  music  o'er  her  being  flung? 


28  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXXIV. 

Or  how  create  anew  the  sterner  grace 
In  man's  heroic  muscles  sheathed  or  shown, 
Whether  he  stoops  from  the  immortal  zone 
Bare  and  majestic,  god  in  limbs  and  face ; 
Or  lies,  a  faun,  beside  his  mountain  flock; 
Or  clasps,  a  satyr,  nymphs  among  the  vine; 
Or  kneels,  a  hermit,  in  his  cell  of  rock ; 
Or  sees,  a  saint,  his  palms  of  glory  shine ! 

XXXV. 

I  took  a  fisher  from  the  Lido's  strand, 

A  youthful  shape,  by  toil  and  vice  unworn, 

Upon  his  limbs  a  golden  flush  like  morn, 

And  on  his  mellow  cheek  the  roses  tanned 

Of  health  and  joy.     Perchance  the  soul  I  missed, 

From  mine  exalted  fancy  might  be  born: 

With  eye  upraised  and  locks  by  sunshine  kissed, 

I  painted  him  as  the  Evangelist. 


THE    ARTIST.  29 

XXXVI. 

In  vain! — the  severance  of  his  lips  expressed 

Kisses  of  love  whereon  his  fancy  fed, 

And  the  warm  tints  each  other  sweetly  wed 

In  slender  limb  and  balanced  arch  of  breast, 

So  keen  with  life,  so  marked  in  every  line 

With  unideal  nature,  none  had  guessed 

The  dream  that  cheered  me  and  the  faith  that  led; 

But  human  all  I  would  have  made  divine! 

XXXVII. 

I  found  a  girl  before  San  Marco's  shrine 
Kneeling  in  gilded  gloom :  her  tawny  hair 
Rippled  across  voluptuous  shoulders  bare, 
And  something  in  the  altar-taper's  shine 
Sparkled  like  falling  tears.     This  girl  shall  be 
My  sorrowing  Magdalen,  as  guilty-sweet, 
I  said,  as  when,  pure  Christ!  she  knelt  to  thee, 
And  laid  her  blushing  forehead  on  thy  feet! 


30  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXXVIII. 

She  sat  before  me.     Like  a  sunny  brook 

Poured  the  unbraided  ripples  softly  round 

The  balmy  dells,  but  left  one  snowy  mound 

Bare  in  its  beauty:  then  I  met  her  look, — 

The  conquering  gaze  of  those  bold  eyes,  which  made, 

Ah,  God  !  the  unrepented  sin  more  fair 

Than  Magdalen  kneeling  with  her  humbled  hair, 

Or  Agatha  beneath  the  quasstor's  blade ! 

XXXIX. 

What  if  my  chaste  ambition  wavered  then? 
What  if  the  veil  from  mine  own  nature  fell 
And  I  obeyed  the  old  Circean  spell, 
And  lived  for  living,  not  for  painted  men? 
Youth  follows  Life,  as  bees  the  honey-bell. 
And  nightingales  the  northward  march  of  Spring, 
And  once,  a  dazzled  moth,  must  try  his  wing, 
Though  but  to  scorch  it  in  the  blaze  of  Hell ! 


THE    ARTIST.  31 

XL. 

Why  only  mimic  what  I  might  possess? 
The  cheated  sense  that  revels  in  delight 
Mocked  at  my  long  denial :  touch  and  sight, 
The  warmth  of  wine,  the  sensuous  loveliness 
Of  offered  lips  and  bosoms  breaking  through 
The  parted  boddice :  winds  whose  faint  caress 
And  wandering  hands  the  daintiest  dreams  renew : 
The  sea's  absorbing  and  embracing  blue: 

XL. 

Of  these  are  woven  our  being's  outward  veil 
Of  rich  sensation,  which  has  power  to  part 
The  pure,  untroubled  soul  and  drunken  heart, — 
A  screen  of  gossamer,  but  giants  fail 
The  bright,  enchanted  web  to  rend  in  twain. 
Two  spirits  dwell  in  us:  one  chaste  and  pale, 
A  still  recluse,  whose  garments  know  no  stain, 
Whose  patient  lips  are  closed  upon  her  pain : 


32  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XLII. 

The  other  bounding  to  her  cymbal's  clang, 
A  bold  Bacchante,  panting  with  the  race 
Of  joy,  the  triumph  and  the  swift  embrace, 
And  gathering  in  one  cup  the  grapes  that  hang 
From  every  vine  of  Youth  :  around  her  head 
The  royal  roses  bare  their  hearts  of  red ; 
Music  is  on  her  lips,  and  from  her  face 
Fierce  freedom  shines  and  wild,  alluring  grace  ! 

XLIII. 

Who  shall  declare  that  ever  side  by  side 
To  weave  harmonious  fate  these  spirits  wrought  ? 
To  whom  came  ever  one's  diviner  pride 
And  one's  full  measure  of  delight,  unsought  ? 
Who  dares  the  cells  of  blood  enrich,  exhaust, 
Or  trust  his  fortune  unto  either  guide  ?  — 
So  interbalanced  hangs  the  equal  cost 
Of  what  is  ordered  and  of  what  is  taught ! 


THE    ARTIST.  33 

XLIV. 

Surprised  to  Passion,  my  awakened  life 
Whirled  onward  in  a  warm,  delirious  maze, 
At  first  reluctant,  and  with  pangs  of  strife 
That  dashed  their  bitter  o'er  my  honeyed  days, 
Until  my  soul's  affrighted  nun  withdrew 
And  left  me  free :  for  light  that  other's  chains 
As  garlands  seemed,  and  fresh  her  wine  as  dew, 
And  wide  her  robes  to  hide  the  banquet-stains! 

XLV. 

Those  were  the  days  of  Summer  which  intrude 
Their  sultry  fervor  on  the  realm  of  Spring, 
And  push  its  buds  to  sudden  blossoming ; 
When  earth  and  air,  with  panting  love  imbued, 
O'erpower  the  subject  life,  and  ceaseless  dart 
All  round  the  warm  horizon  of  the  heart 
Heat-lightnings  in  the  sky  of  youth,  which  first 
Regains  its  freshness  when  the  bolts  have  burst. 

2*  C 


34  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XL  VI. 

And  thus,  when  that   Sirocco's   breath  had  passed, 
A  refluent  wind  of  health  swept  o'er  my  brain, 
Cold,  swift,  and  searching ;  and  before  it  fast 
Fled  the  uncertain,  misty  shapes  which  cast 
Their  glory  on  my  dreams.     The  ardor  vain 
That  would  have  snatched,  unearned,  slow  labor's  crown, 
Was  dimmed ;  and  half  with  courage,  half  with  pain, 
I  guessed  the  path  that  led  to  old  renown. 

XL  VII. 

I  turned  my  pictures,  pitying  the  while 
My  boyish  folly,  for  I  could  not  yet 
The  dear  deception  of  my  youth  forget, 
And  though  it  parted  from  me  like  an  isle 
Of  the  blue  sea  behind  some  rushing  keel, 
Still  from  the  cliffs  its  temple  seemed  to  smile, 
Fairer  in  fading :  future  morns  reveal 
No  bowers  so  bright  as  yesterdays  conceal. 


THE    ARTIST.  35 

XL  VIII. 

Dried  was  the  dew  and  fled  the  golden  cloud ! 
O'erMhe  bare  earth  the  sharp,  unsparing  sun 
Shone,  disenchanting,  chasing  every  one 
The  sweet  illusions  from  their  secret  shroud 
Of  silence  and  of  shadow :  and  I  drew 
The  simple  forms  which  wooed  not,  but  compelled, 
Because  my  drugged  ambition,  roused  anew, 
Mine  idle  powers  unto  its  service  held. 

XLIX. 

The  laughing  boys  that  on  the  marble  piers 
Lounge  with  their  dangling  feet  above  the  wave  ; 
The  tawny  faces  of  the  gondoliers ; 
The  low-browed  girl,  whose  scarce-unfolded  years 
But  half  the  lightning  of  her  glances  gave ;  — 
I  sketched  in  turn,  with  busy  hand  and  brave, 
And  crushed  my  clouded  hope's  recurring  pang, 
And  sweet  "  Ti  voglio  bene  assdi"  sang. 


36  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

L. 

Then  came  the  hour  when  I  must  say  farewell 
To  silent  Venice  in  her  crystal  nest,  — 
When  with  the  last  peals  of  San  Marco's  bell 
Her  hushed  and  splendid  pageant  closed,  and  fell 
Like  her  own  jewel  in  the  ocean's  breast. 
Belfry,  and  dome,  and  the  superb  array 
Of  wave-born  temples  floated  far  away, 
And  the  dull  shores  received  me  in  the  west. 

LI. 

And  past  the  Euganaean  hills,  that  break 
The  Adrian  plain,  I  wandered  to  the  Po, 
And  saw  Ferrara,  vacant  in  her  woe, 
Clasp  the  dim  cell  wherein  her  children  take 
A  ghastly  pride  from  her  immortal  shame ; 
And  hailed  Bologna,  for  Caracci's  sake, — 
The  master  bold,  who  scorned  to  court  his  fame, 
But  bared  his  arm  and  dipped  his  brush  in  flame. 


THE    ARTIST.  37 

LIT. 

Through  many  a  dark-red  dell  of  Apennine 
With  chestnut-shadows  in  its  brookless  bed, 
By  flinty  slopes  whose  only  dew  is  wine, 
And  hills  the  olives  gave  a  hoary  head, 
I  climbed  to  seek  the  sunny  vale  where  flows 
The  Tuscan  river,  —  where,  when  Art  was  dead, 
Lorenzo's  spring  thawed  out  the  ages'  snows, 
And  green  with  life  the  eternal  plant  arose ! 

Lin. 

At  last,  from  Pratolino's  sloping  crest, 

I  saw  the  far,  aerial,  purple  gleam, 

As  from  Earth's  edge  a  fairer  orb  might  seem 

In  softer  air  and  sunnier  beauty  drest, 

And  onward  swift  with  panting  bosom  pressed, 

Like  one  whose  wavering  will  pursues  a  dream 

And  shrinks  from  waking;  but  the  vision  grew 

With  every  step  distinct  in  form  and  hue: 


38  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LIV. 

Till,  on  the  brink  of  ancient  Fiesole, 

Mute,  breathless,  hanging  o'er  the  dazzling  deeps 

Of  broad  Val  d'Arno,  which  the  sinking  day 

Drowned  in  an  airy  bath  of  rosy  ray,  — 

An  atmosphere  more  dream-imbued  than  Sleep's,  — 

My  feet  were  stayed;  with  sweet  and  sudden  tears, 

And  startled  lifting  of  the  cloud  that  lay 

Upon  the  landscape  of  the  future  years ! 

LV. 

I  stood  and  gazed;  and  silvery  bells  below 
Throbbed,  like  the  beating  pulses  of  the  scene, 
From  distant  domes  that  burned  athwart  the  screen 
Of  liquid  color.     Songs  of  self-born  flow, 
Like  air  or  water,  mingled  near  and  far, 
Half  heard:   I  felt  around  my  forehead  blow 
The  breath  of  hopes  that  form  nor  language  know,  — 
Soft  murmurs,  voices  from  another  star! 


THE    ARTIST.  39 

LVI. 

I  leaned  against  a  cypress-bole,  afraid 
With  blind  foretaste  of  coming  ecstasy, 
So  rarely  on  the  soul  the  joy  to  be 
Prophetic  dawns,  so  frequent  falls  the  shade 
Of  near  misfortune !     All  my  senses  sang, 
And  lark-like  soared  and  jubilant  and  free 
The  flock  of  dreams,  that  from  my  bosom  sprang, 
O'er  yonder  towers  to  hover  and  to  hang! 


LVII. 

Ah,  lovely  Florence !     Never  city  wore 
So  shining  robes  as  I  on  thee  bestowed: 
For  all  the  rapture  of  my  being  flowed 
Around  thy  beauty,  filling,  flooding  o'er 
The  banks  of  Arno  and  the  circling  hills 
With  light  no  wind  of  sunset  ever  spills 
From  out  its  saffron  seas!     Once,  and  no  more, 
Life's  voyage  touches  the  enchanted  shore. 


or  Tin 

WJTIRSITT! 


40  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LVIII. 

Then,  as  the  dusty  road  I  downward  paced, 
A  phantom  arch  was  ever  builded  nigh 
To  span  my  coming,  luminous  and  high; 
And  airy  columns,  crowned  with  censers,  graced 
The  dreamful  pomp,  —  with  many  a  starry  bell 
From  garlands  woven  in  the  fading  sky, 
And  noiseless  fountains  shimmered,  as  they  fell, 
Like  meteor-fires  that  haunt  a  fairy  dell! 

LIX. 

Two  maids,  upon  a  terrace  that  o'erhung 
The  highway,  lightly  strove  in  laughing  play 
Each  one  the  other's  wreath  to  snatch  away, 
With  backward-bending  heads,  and  arms  that  clung 
In  intertwining  beauty.     Both  were  young, 
And  one  as  my  Madonna-dream  was  fair; 
And  she  the  garland  from  the  other's  hair 
Caught  with  a  cunning  hand,  and  poised,  and  flung. 


THE    ARTIST.  41 

LX. 

A  fragrant  ring  of  jasmine  flowers,  it  sped, 
Dropping  their  elfin  trumpets  in  its  flight, 
And  downward  circling,  on  my  startled  head 
Some  angel  bade  the  diadem  alight! 
The  cool  green  leaves  and  breathing  blossoms  white 
Embraced  my  brow  with  dainty,  mute  caress : 
I  stood  in  rapt  amazement,  soul  and  sight 
Surrendered  to  that  vision's  loveliness. 

LXT. 

She,  too,  stood,  smitten  with  the  wondrous  chance 
Whereby  the  freak  of  her  unwitting  hand 
A  stranger's  forehead  crowned.     I  saw  her  stand, 
Most  like  some  flying  Hour,  that,  in  her  dance 
Perceives  a  god,  and  drops  her  courser's  rein: 
Then,  while  I  drank  the  fulness  of  her  glance, 
Crept  over  throat  and  cheek  a  bashful  stain, — 
She  fled,  yet  flying  turned,  and  looked  again. 


42  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXII. 

And  I  went  forward,  consecrated,  blest, 
And  garlanded  like  some  returning  Faun 
From  Pan's  green  revels  in  the  woodland's  breast. 
Here  was  a  crown  to  give  Ambition  rest, 
A  wreath  for  infant  Love  to  slumber  on! 
And  blended,  both  in  mine  enchantment  shone, 
Till  Love  was  only  Fame  familiar  grown, 
And  Fame  but  Love  triumphantly  expressed! 

LXIII. 

Such  moments  come  to  all  whom  Art  elects 
To  serve  her,  —  Poet,  Painter,  Sculptor,  feel, 
Once  in  their  lives  the  shadows  which  conceal 
Achievement  lifted,  and  the  world's  neglects 
Are  spurned  behind  them,  like  the  idle  dust 
Whirled  from  Hyperion's  golden  chariot-wheel: 
Once  vexing  doubt  is  dumb,  and  long  disgust 
Allayed,  and  Time  and  Fate  and  Fame  are  just! 


THE    ARTIST.  43 

LXIV. 

It  is  enough,  if  underneath  our  rags 

A  single  hour  the  monarch's  purple  shows. 

In  dearth  of  praise  no  true  ambition  flags, 

And  by  his  self-belief  the  student  knows 

The  master:  nor  was  ever  wholly  dark 

The  Artist's  life.     Though  timid  fortune  lags 

Behind  his  hope,  there  comes  a  day  to  mark 

The  late  renown  that  round  his  name  shall  close. 

LXV. 

I  dared  not  question  my  prophetic  pride, 

But  entered  Florence  as  a  conqueror, 

To  whom  should  ope  the  Tribune's  sacred  door, 

Hearing  his  step  afar.     On  every  side 

Great  works  fed  faith  in  greatness  that  endured 

^recognition,  patient  to  abide 

Neglect  that  stung,  temptations  that  allured, — 

Supremely  proud  and  in  itself  secured! 


44  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXVI. 

From  the  warm  bodies  Titian  loved  to  paint, 
Where  life  still  palpitates  in  languid  glow; 
From  Raphael's  heads  of  Virgin  and  of  Saint, 
Bright  with  divinest  message ;  from  the  slow 
And  patient  grandeur  Leonardo  wrought ; 
From  soft,  effeminate  Carlo  Dolce,  faint 
With  vapid  sweetness,  to  the  Titan  thought 
That  shaped  the  dreams  of  Michel  Angelo : 

LXVII. 

From  each  and  all,  through  varied  speech,  I  drew 
One  sole,  immortal  revelation.     They 
No  longer  mocked  me  with  the  hopeless  view 
Of  power  that  with  them  died,  but  gave  anew 
The  hope  of  power  that  cannot  pass  away 
While  Beauty  lives :  the  passion  of  the  brain 
Demands  possession,  nor  shall  yearn  in  vain : 
Its  nymph,  though  coy,  did  never  yet  betray. 


THE    ARTIST.  45 

LXYIH. 

It  is  not  much  to  earn  the  windy  praise 
That  fans  our  early  promise:  every  child 
Wears  childhood's  grace :  in  unbelieving  days 
One  spark  of  earnest  faith  left  undefiled 
"Will  burn  and  brighten  like  the  lamps  of  old, 
And  men  cry  out  in  haste:  "Behold,  a  star!" 
Deeming  some  glow-worm  light,  that  soon  is  cold, 
The  radiant  god's  approaching  avatar ! 

LXIX. 

So  I  was  hailed :  and  something  fawn-like,  shy, 
Caught  from  the  loneliness  of  mountain-glens, 
That  clung  around  me,  drew  the  stranger's  eye 
And  held  my  life  apart  from  other  men's. 
Their  prophecies  were  sweet,  and  if  they  breathed 
But  ignorant  hope  and  shallow  pleasure,  I 
No  less  from  them  already  saw  bequeathed 
The  crown  by  avaricious  Glory  wreathed. 


46  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXX. 

And,  climbing  up  to  San  Miniato's  height, 
Among  the  cypresses  I  made  a  nest 
For  wandering  fancy :  down  the  shimmering  west 
The  Arno  slid  in  creeping  coils  of  light : 
O'er  Boboli's  fan-like  pines  the  city  lay 
In  tints  that  freshly  blossomed  on  the  sight, 
Enringed  with  olive  orchards,  thin  and  gray, 
Like  moonlight  falling  in  the  lap  of  day. 

LXXI. 

There  sprang,  before  me,  Giotto's  ivory  tower; 
There  hung,  a  planet,  Brunelleschi's  dome  : 
Of  living  dreams  Val  d'  Arno  seemed  the  home, 
From  far  Careggi's  dim-seen  laurel  bower 
To  Bellosguardo,  smiling  o'er  the  vale ; 
And  pomp  and  beauty  and  supremest  power, 
Blending  and  brightening  in  their  bridal  hour, 
Made  even  the  blue  of  Tuscan  summers  pale ! 


THE    ARTIST.  47 

LXXII. 

Immortal  Masters !     Ye  who  drank  this  air 
And  made  it  spirit,  as  the  must  makes  wine, 
Be  ye  the  intercessors  of  my  prayer, 
Pure  Saints  of  Art,  around  her  holy  shrine ! 
The  purpose  of  your  lives  bestow  on  mine,  — 
The  child-like  heart,  the  true,  laborious  hand 
And  pious  vision,  —  that  my  soul  may  dare 
One  day  to  climb  the  summits  where  ye  stand ! 

LXXIII. 

Say,  shall  my  memory  walk  in  yonder  street 
Beside  your  own,  ye  ever-living  shades  ? 
Shall  pilgrims  come,  gray  men  and  pensive  maids, 
To  pluck  this  moes  because  it  knew  my  feet, 
And  forms  of  mine  move  o'er  the  poet's  mind 
In  thoughts  that  still  to  haunting  music  beat, 
And  Love  and  Grief  and  Adoration  find 
Their  speech  in  pictures  I  shall  leave  behind? 


48  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXIV. 

Ah!  they,  the  Masters,  toiled  where  I  but  dreamed! 
The  crown  was  ready  ere  they  dared  to  claim 
One  leaf  of  honor :  then,  around  them  gleamed 
No  Past,  where  rival  souls  of  splendid  name 
At  once  inspire  and  bring  despair  of  fame. 
A  naked  heaven  was  o'er  them,  where  to  set 
Their  kindled  stars ;  and  thus  the  palest  yet 
Exalted  burns  o'er  all  that  later  came. 

LXXV. 

They  unto  me  were  gods :  for,  though  I  felt 
That  nobler  'twas,  creating,  even  to  fail 
Than  grandly  imitate,  my  spirit  knelt, 
Unquestioning,  to  their  authority. 
I  learned  their  lives,  intent  to  find  a  tale 
Resembling  mine,  and  deemed  my  vision  free 
When  most  their  names  obscured  with  flattering  veil 
That  light  of  Art  which  first  arose  in  me. 


THE    ARTIST.  49 

LXXVI. 

And  less  for  Beauty's  single  sake  inspired 
Than  old  interpretations  to  attain, 
I  sought  with  restless  hand  and  heated  brain 
Their  truth  to  reach,  —  by  his  example  fired 
Who  sketched  his  mountain-goats  on  rock  or  sand, 
And  his,  the  wondrous  boy,  beneath  whose  hand, 
Conferring  sanctity  with  sweet  disdain, 
A  cask  became  a  shrine,  a  hut  a  fane. 

LXXVH, 

My  studio  was  the  street,  the  market-place: 

I  snared  the  golden  spirit  of  the  sun 

Amid  his  noonday  freedom,  —  swiftly  won 

The  unconscious  gift  from  many  a  passing  face, — 

The  spoils  of  color  caught  from  dazzling  things, 

From  unsuspecting  forms  the  sudden  grace, 

Alive  with  hope  to  find  the  hidden  wings 

Of  the  Divine  that  from  the  Human  springs. 

3  D 


50  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

Lxxvin. 

Erelong,  my  canvas  glowed  with  riper  tints: 
The  bloom  of  life  was  there,  if  immature 
The  early  fruitage.     Nature  ever  prints 
Her  own  bright  seal  on  that  which  we  allure 
From  her  unguarded  keeping,  dropping  hints 
Whereby  we  track  her  labyrinthine  ways 
Back  to  some  splendid  secret,  that  repays 
Life  sacrificed  with  life  that  shall  endure. 

LXXIX. 

A  jasmine  garland  hung  above  my  bed, 
Withered  and  dry :  beneath,  a  picture  hung,  — 
A  shadowy  likeness  of  the  maid  who  flung 
That  crown  of  welcome.     On  my  sleeping  head 
The  glory  of  the  vanished  sunset  fell, 
And  still  the  leaves  reviving  fragrance  shed, 
And  dreams  crept  out  of  every  jasmine-bell, 
Inebriate  with  their  fairy  hydromel. 


THE    ARTIST.  51 

LXXX. 

Where  was  my  lost  Arinida?     She  had  grown 
A  phantom  shape,  a  star  of  dreams,  alone ; 
And  I  no  longer  dared  to  touch  the  dim 
Unfinished  features,  lest  my  brush  should  mar 
A  memory  swift  as  wings  of  cherubim 
That  unto  saints  in  prayer  may  flash  afar 
Up  the  long  steep  of  rifted  cloudy  walls, 
Wherethrough  the  overpowering  glory  falls. 

LXXXI. 

But,  as  the  Rose  will  lend  its  excellence 
To  the  unlovely  earth  in  which  it  grows, 
Until  the  sweet  earth  says,  "  I  serve  the  Rose," 
So,  penetrant  with  her  was  every  sense. 
She  filled  me  as  the  moon  a  sleeping  sea, 
That  shows  the  night  her  orb  reflected  thence, 
Yet  deems  itself  all  darkness :  silently 
The  dream  of  her  betrayed  itself  in  me. 


2  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.   JOHN. 

LXXXII. 

I  had  a  cherished  canvas,  whereupon 
An  antique  form  of  inspiration  grew 
To  other  life :  beneath  a  sky  of  blue, 
Filled  with  the  sun  and  limpid  yet  with  dawn, 
A  palm-tree  rose :  its  glittering  leaves  were  bowed 
As  though  to  let  no  ray  of  sunlight  through 
Their  folded  shade,  and  kept  the  early  dew 
On  all  the  flowers  within  its  hovering  cloud. 

LXXXIII. 

Madonna's  girlish  form,  arrested  there 
With  poising  foot,  and  parted  lips,  and  eyes 
With  innocent  wonder  bright  and  glad  surprise, 
And  hands  half-clasped  in  rapture  or  in  prayer, 
Met  the  Announcing  Angel.     On  her  sight 
He  burst  in  splendor  from  the  sunny  air, 
Making  it  dim  around  his  perfect  light, 
And  in  his  hand  the  lily-stem  he  bare. 


THE    ARTIST.  53 

L  XXXIV. 

Naught  else,  save,  nestling  near  the  Virgin's  feet, 
A  single  lamb  that  wandered  from  its  flock, 
And  one  white  dove,  upon  a  splintered  rock 
Above  the  yawning  valleys,  dim  with  heat. 
Beyond,  the  rifted  hills  of  Gilead  flung 
Their  phantom  shadows  on  the  burning  veil, 
And,  far  away,  one  solitary,  pale 
Vermilion  cloud  above  the  Desert  hung. 

LXXXV. 

I  painted  her,  a  budding,  spotless  maid, 

That  has  not  dreamed  of  man,  —  for  God's  high  choice 

Too  humble,  yet  too  pure  to  be  afraid, 

And  from  the  music  of  the  Angel's  voice 

And  from  the  lily's  breathing  heart  of  gold 

Inspired  to  feel  the  mystic  beauty  laid 

Upon  her  life :  the  secret  is  untold, 

Unconsciously  the  message  is  obeyed. 


54  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXXVI. 

How  much  I  failed,  myself  alone  could  know ; 
How  much  achieved,  the  world.     My  picture  took 
Its  place  with  others  in  the  public  show, 
And  many  passed,  and  some  remained  to  look. 
While  I,  in  flushed  expectancy  and  fear, 
Stood  by  to  watch  the  gazers  come  and  go, 
To  note  each  pausing  face,  perchance  to  hear 
A  careless  whisper  tell  me  Fame  was  near. 

LXXXVII. 

"  'T  is  Ghirlandajo's  echo  !  "  some  would  say  ; 
And  others,  "  Here  one  sees  a  pupil's  hand  " : 
"  An  innovation,  crude,  but  fairly  planned," 
Remarked  the  connoisseur,  and  moved  away, 
Sublimely  grave :  but  one,  sometimes,  would  stand 
Silent,  with  brightening  face.     No  more  than  this, 
Though  voiceless  praise,  ambition  could  demand, 
And  for  an  hour  I  felt  the  Artist's  bliss. 


THE    ARTIST.  55 

L  XXX  VIII. 

One  day,  a  man  of  haughty  port  drew  nigh,  — 
A  man  beyond  his  prime,  but  still  unbent, 
Though  the  first  flakes  of  age  already  lent 
Their  softness  to  his  brow  :  his  wandering  eye 
Allowed  its  stately  patronage  to  glide 
Along  the  pictures,  till,  with  gaze  intent 
He  fixed  on  mine,  and  startled  wonderment 
Displaced  his  air  of  cold,  indifferent  pride. 

LXXXIX. 

"  Signer  Marchese  !  "  cried,  approaching,  one 
"Who  seemed  a  courtly  comrade,  "  can  it  be 
That  in  these  daubs  the  touch  of  Art  you  see,  — 
These  foreign  moons  that  ape  our  native  sun  ?  " 
To  whom  he  said  :  "  the  Virgin,  Count !     'T  is  she, 
My  Clelia !  like  a  portrait  just  begun, 
Where  the  design  is  yet  but  half  avowed, 
And  shimmers  on  you  through  a  misty  cloud: 


56  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XC. 

"  So,  here,  I  find  her.     'T  is  a  marvellous  chance. 
Your  painters  choose  some  peasant  beauty's  face 
For  their  Madonnas,  striving  to  enhance 
By  softer  tints  her  coarse  plebeian  grace 
To  something  heavenly.     Here,  the  features  wear 
A  noble  stamp :  who  painted  this,  is  fit 
That  Clelia's  self  beside  his  canvas  sit,  — 
His  hand,  methinks,  might  fix  her  shadow  there." 

xci. 

"  'T  is  true,  —  you  wed  her  then,  as  I  have  heard, 

And  to  the  young  Colonna  ?  "     "  Even  so  : 

We  made  the  family  compact  long  ago. 

A  wilful  blade,  they  say,  but  every  bird 

Is  wiser  when  he  owns  a  nested  mate ; 

And  I  shall  lose  her  ere  the  winter's  snow 

Falls  on  the  Apennine,  —  a  father's  fate  ! 

But  from  these  two  my  house  again  may  grow. 


THE    ARTIST.  57 

XCII. 

"  She  lost,  her  picture  in  the  lonely  hall 
Shall  speak,  from  silent  lips,  her  sweet  (  good-night ! ' 
And  soothe  my  childless  fancy.     I  '11  invite 
This  painter  to  the  work :  his  brush  has  all 
The  graces  of  a  hand  which  takes  delight 
In  noble  forms,  —  and  thus  may  best  recall, 
Though  nameless  he,  what  Palma's  brush  divine 
Found  in  the  beauteous  mothers  of  her  line ! " 

XCIII. 

I  heard  ;  but  trembling,  turned  away  to  hide 
An  ecstasy  no  longer  to  be  quelled, — 
The  lover's  longing  and  the  artist's  pride : 
For,  though  the  growing  truth  of  life  dispelled 
My  rash  ideal,  my  very  blood  had  caught 
The  fine  infection  :  from  my  heart  it  welled, 
Colored  each  feeling,  perfumed  every  thought, 

And  gave  desire  what  hope  had  left  unsought ! 
3* 


58  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XCIV. 

'T  was  blind,  unthinking  rapture.     Who  was  she, 
Pandolfo's  daughter,  young  Colonna's  bride, 
The  pampered  maiden  of  a  house  of  pride, 
That  I,  though  but  in  thought,  should  bend  the  knee 
Before  her  beauty?     She  was  set  too  high, 
And  her  white  lustre  wore  patrician  stains, 
Like  sunshine  falling  through  heraldic  panes 
That  rise  between  the  altar  and  the  sky. 

xcv. 

Next  day  the  Marquis  came.     With  antique  air 

Of  nicest  courtesy,  his  words  did  sue 

The  while  his  tone  commanded:  could  I  spare 

Some  hours  ?  —  a  portrait  only,  it  was  true, 

But  the  Great  Masters  painted  portraits  too, 

Even  Raffaello :  at  his  palace,  then  ! 

The  Lady  Clelia  would  await  me  there : 

His  thanks,  —  to-morrow,  should  it  be  ?  —  at  ten. 


THE    ARTIST.  59 

XCVI. 

But  when  the  hour  approached,  and  o'er  me  hung 
The  shadow  of  the  high  Palladian  walls, 
My  heart  beat  fast  in  feverish  intervals : 
I  half  drew  back :  the  lackeys  open  flung 
The  brazen  portals,  —  broad  before  me  rose 
The  marble  stairs,  —  above  them  gleamed  the  halls, 
And  I  ascended,  as  a  man  who  goes 
To  see  some  unknown  gate  of  life  unclose. 

XCVII. 

They  bore  my  easel  to  a  spacious  room 

Whose  northern  windows  curbed  the  eager  day, 

But  under  them  a  sunny  garden  lay  : 

A  fountain  sprang :  the  myrtles  were  in  bloom, 

And  I  remembered,  —  "  ere  the  winter's  snow 

Cloaks  Apennine  "  Colonna  bears  away 

Her  who  shall  wear  them.     'T  is  a  woman's  doom, 

I  laughed,  —  she  seeks  no  other :  let  her  go  ! 


60  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XCVIII. 

Lo !  rustling  forward  with  a  silken  sound, 
Her  living  self  advanced  !  —  as  fair  and  frail 
As  May's  first  lily  in  a  Northern  vale, 
As  light  in  airy  grace,  as  when  she  crowned 
Her  painter's  head,  —  the  Genius  of  my  Fame  ! 
Ah,  words  are  vain  where  Music's  tongue  would  fail, 
And  Color's  brightest  miracles  be  found 
Imperfect,  cold,  to  match  her  as  she  came ! 

xcix. 

The  blood  that  gathered,  stifling,  at  my  heart, 
Surged  back  again,  and  burned  on  cheek  and  brow. 
"  Your  model !  "  smiled  the  Marquis  ;  "  you  '11  avow 
That  she  is  not  unworthy  of  your  art. 
I  see  you  note  the  likeness,  —  it  is  strange  : 
But  since  you  dreamed  her  face  so  nearly,  now 
You  '11  paint  it,  —  as  she  is,  —  I  want  no  change  "  : 
Then  left,  with  wave  of  hand  and  stately  bow. 


THE    ARTIST.  61 


0. 

A  girlish  wonder  dawned  in  Clelia's  face. 
Her  frank,  pure  glances  seemed  to  question  mine, 
Or  scanned  my  features,  seeking  to  retrace 
Her  way  to  me  along  some  gossamer  line 
Of  memory,  almost  found,  then  lost  again. 
Meanwhile,  I  set  my  canvas  in  its  place, 
Recalled  the  artist-nature,  though  with  pain, 
And  tamed  to  work  the  tumult  of  my  brain. 

01. 

"  I  give  you  trouble,"  then  she  gently  said. 
My  brow  was  damp,  my  hand  unsteady.     "  Nay," 
I  answered ;  "  't  is  the  grateful  price  I  pay 
For  that  fair  wreath  you  cast  upon  my  head." 
She  started,  blushing :  all  at  once  she  found 
The  shining  clew,  —  her  silvery  laughter  made 
The  prelude  to  her  words :  "  the  flowers  will  fade, 
But  by  your  hand  am  I  forever  crowned ! " 


THE 


PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN 


BOOK    II. 


BOOK    II. 


THE    WOMAN. 


S~\   GIVE  not  Beauty  to  an  artist's  eye 

And  deem  his  heart,  untroubled,  can  withstand 
Her  necromancy,  changing  earth  and  sky 
To  one  wide  net  wherein  her  captives  lie !  — 
Nor,  since  his  mind  the  measure  takes,  his  hand 
Essays  the  semblance  of  each  hue  and  line, 
That  cold  his  pulses  beat,  as  if  he  scanned 
Her  marble  death  and  not  her  life  divine  ! 


66  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

II. 
X 

How  could  I  view  the  sombre-shining  hair 

Without  the  tingling,  passionate  wish  to  feel 
Its  silken  smoothness?     How  the  golden-pale 
Pure  oval  of  the  face,  the  forehead  fair, 
The  light  of  eyes  whose  dusky  depths  conceal 
Love's  yet  unkindled  torch,  and  wear  the  mail 
Of  cruel  Art,  that  bade  me  mimic  bliss 
And  only  paint  the  mouth  I  burned  to  kiss  ? 

in. 

Those  perfect  lips,  their  virgin  dew  undrained, 
Smiled,  as  the  parted  lips  of  Morning  smile, 
Brightening  the  world;  or  cast,  when  sadness  reigned, 
A  shade  like  twilight  o'er  a  lonely  isle 
That  sleeps  afar  on  some  enchanted  wave: 
And  as  an  unknown  blossom  might  enslave 
A  wandering  bee,  and  chain  his  wings  awhile, 
They  held  my  heart,  and  all  its  hope,  enchained. 


THE    WOMAN.  67 

IV. 

So  near,  the  airy  wave  her  voice  set  free 
Smote  warm  against  my  cheek !     So  near,  I  heard 
The  folds  that  hid  her  bosom,  as  they  stirred 
Above  the  heart-beat  measuring  now,  for  me, 
Life's  only  music !     Ah,  so  near,  and  yet 
Between  us  rose  a  wall  I  could  not  see, 
To  dash  me  back,  —  before  the  wings  that  fret 
For  love's  release,  a  crystal  barrier  set ! 

v. 

But  o'er  mute  lips  the  yearning  eye  may  speak 
In  unforbidden  glances,  each  a  prayer, 
Until  their  silent-woven  web  shall  snare 
The  innocent  fancy :  so,  to  Clelia's  cheek, 
Long  ere  she  dreamed,  the  unsuspected  rose 
Branched  from  her  heart  and  spread  its  petals  there, 
Faint,  tender,  shadowy,  as  the  flower  that  grows 
Beneath  the  wildwood's  roof  in  sunless  air. 


68  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

VI. 

I  kissed,  in  thought,  each  clear,  delicious  tint 
That  lured  my  mocking  hand :  my  passion  flung 
Its  lurking  sweetness  over  every  print 
Of  the  soft  brush  that  to  her  beauty  clung, 
And  fondled  while  it  toiled,  —  and  day  by  day 
The  canvas  brightened  with  her  brightening  face : 
The  artist  gloried  in  the  picture's  grace, 
But,  ah !  the  lover's  chances  lapsed  away. 

VII. 

And  now,  —  the  last !     The  grapes  already  wore 

Victorious  purple,  ere  their  trodden  death ; 

The  olives  darkened  through  their  branches  hoar, 

And  from  below  the  tuberose's  breath 

Died  round  the  casement,  from  the  spicy  shore 

Of  ripened  summer,  passionate  as  the  sigh 

I  stifled  :  and  my  heart  said,  —  "  speak  or  die  ! 

The  moment's  fate  stands  fixed  forevermore." 


THE    WOMAN.  69 

VIII. 

The  naked  glare  of  breezeless  afternoon 
Dazzled  without :  the  garden  swooned  in  heat. 
The  old  duenna  drooped  her  head,  and  soon 
Behind  the  curtain  slumbered  in  her  seat. 
Within  my  breast  the  crowded,  panting  beat 
Disturbed  my  hand :  the  pencil  fell :  I  turned, 
And  with  imploring  eyes  and  tears  that  burned 
Sank  in  despairing  silence  at  her  feet. 

IX. 

I  did  not  dare  look  up,  but  knelt,  as  waits 
A  foiled  tyrannicide  the  headsman's  blow : 
At  first  a  frightened  hush,  —  the  stealthy,  slow, 
Soft  rustle  of  her  dress,  —  a  step  like  Fate's 
To  crown  or  smite  :  but  now  descended,  where 
Her  garland  fell,  her  hand  upon  my  hair, 
And,  light  as  floating  leaf  of  orchard-snow 
Loosed  by  the  pulse  of  Spring,  it  trembled  there. 


70  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

X. 

Then  I  looked  up,  —  0,  grace  of  God !  to  feel 
Her  answering  tears  like  dew  upon  my  brow ; 
To  touch  and  kiss  her  blessing  hand ;  to  seal 
Without  a  word  the  one  eternal  vow 
Of  man  and  woman,  when  their  lives  unite 
Thenceforth  forever,  soul  and  body  shared, 
Like  those  the  Grecian  goddess,  pitying,  paired 
To  form  the  young,  divine  Hermaphrodite. 

XI. 

I  breathed  "you  do  not  love  Colonna?"     "No," 
She  whispered,  "  aid  me,  I  am  yours  to  save ! " 
"  I  yours  to  help,  your  lover  and  your  slave,  — 
My  soul,  my  blood  is  yours,"  I  murmured  low. 
The  old  duenna  stirred :  "  when  ?  where  ?  one  hour 
For  your  commands  ! "     As  hurriedly  she  gave 
Reply:   "The  garden,  —  yonder  darkest  bower, 
When  midnight  tolls  from  Santa  Croce's  tower ! " 


THE    WOMAN.  71 

XII. 

Ere  the  immortal  light  had  time  to  fade 
In  cither's  eyes,  the  old  Marchese  came. 
I  veiled,  in  toil,  the  flush  that  still  betrayed, 
And  Clelia,  strong  to  hide  her  maiden  shame, 
The  motion  of  her  father's  hand  obeyed 
And  left  us.     Gravely  he  my  work  surveyed: 
"Tis  done,  I  think, —  'tis  she,  indeed,"  he  said: 
"  'T  was  time,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  his  head. 

XIII. 

I  bowed  in  silence,  took  his  offered  gold, 

And  down  the  marble  stairs,  through  doors  that  cried, 

On  scornful  hinges,  of  their  owner's  pride, 

Passed  on  my  way :  my  happy  heart  did  fold 

Pandolfo's  treasure  in  its  secret  hold, 

And  every  bell  that  chimed  the  feeble  day 

Down  to  its  crimson  burial,  seemed  to  say  : 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,  for  Love  our  tongues  have  tolled!" 


72  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XIV. 

0  sluggish  bells,  that  lengthened  so  the  hours, 
With  sun  and  stars  conspiring  to  prolong 
Day,  sunset,  twilight,  —  silent  in  your  towers 
While  my  heart  ached  to  hear  your  drowsy  song 
Proclaim  the  bliss  it  could  not  yet  believe ! 

"  Arise,  O  moon,  and  light  the  expectant  bowers," 

1  cried :  "  ye  stars,  your  branching  garlands  weave, 
Till  midnight's  glory  dims  the  rose  of  eve ! " 

XV. 

More  slowly  rolled  the  silver  disk  above 
The  hiding  hills,  than  ever  moon  came  up  : 
The  sky's  begemmed  and  sapphire-tinted  cup 
Spilled  o'er  its  dew,  and  Heaven  in  nuptial  love 
Stretched  forth  his  mystic  arms,  and  couched  beside 
The  yearning  Earth,  his  dusky-featured  bride : 
The  pulses  of  the  Night  began  to  move, 
And  Life's  eternal  secret  ruled  the  tide. 


THE    WOMAN.  73 

XVI. 

Along  the  shadow  of  the  garden-walls 

I  crept:  the  streets  were  still,  or  only  beat 

To  wavering  echoes  by  unsteady  feet 

Of  wine-flushed  revellers  from  banquet  halls. 

They  saw  me  not :  the  yielding  door  I  gained, 

And  glided  down  a  darksome  alley,  sweet 

With  slumbering  roses,  to  the  shy  retreat 

Of  bashful  bliss  and  yearning  unprofaned. 

XVII. 

I  stood  in  soft,  enchanted  gloom:  around 
The  guarding  branches  bent,  and  drops  of  light 
That  shone  like  glow-worms  on  the  mossy  ground 
Leaked  through  the  roof:  the  fountain's  babbling  sound, 
Near  and  incessant,  seemed  a  friendly  sprite, 
To  hide  Love's  whispers  with  melodious  din. 
I  cleft  the  leaves  and  softly  stole  within, 
Endymion-like,  to  wait  my  Queen  of  Night. 
4 


74  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XVIII. 

The  amorous  odors  of  the  moveless  air,  — 
Jasmine  and  tuberose  and  gillyflower, 
Carnation,  heliotrope,  and  purpling  shower 
Of  Persian  roses,  —  kissed  my  senses  there 
To  keenest  passion,  clad  my  limbs  with  power 
Like  some  young  god's,  when  at  the  banquet  first 
He  drinks  fresh  deity  with  eager  thirst, — 
And  midnight  rang  from  Santa  Croce's  tower ! 

XIX. 

She  came !  a  stealthy,  startled,  milk-white  fawn, 
Thridding  the  tangled  bloom :  a  balmy  wave 
Foreran  her  coming,  and  the  blushful  dawn 
Of  Love  its  color  to  the  moonlight  gave, 
And  Night  grew  splendid.     In  a  trance  divine, 
Hand  locked  in  hand,  with  kissing  pulse,  we  clung, 
Then  heart  to  heart;  and  all  her  being  flung 
Its  sweetness  to  the  lips,  and  mixed  with  mine. 


THE    WOMAN.  75 

XX. 

Immortal  Hour,  whose  starry  torch  did  guide 

Eternal  Love  to  his  embalmed  nest 

In  virgin  bosoms,  —  Hour,  supremely  blest 

Beyond  thy  sisters,  lift  thy  brow  in  pride, 

And  say  to  her  whose  muffled  beams  invest 

The  bed  where  Strength  lies  down  at  Beauty's  side, 

"  Before  my  holier  lamp  thy  forehead  hide : 

Give  up  thy  crown :  the  joy  I  bring  is  best ! " 

XXI. 

As  parted  souls  might  meet  in  Heaven,  we  met, 
With  wonder  seated  by  the  side  of  bliss, 
And  rapture  interblended  with  regret, 
As  each  beholds  in  each  the  beauty  set 
Which,  humble-hearted,  in  themselves  they  miss; 
And  Love,  intent  to  recognize  his  claim, 
Made  pure  as  dew  the  sweet,  infectious  kiss, 
And  tamed  to  tenderness  his  pulse  of  flame. 


76  THE    PICTURE    OF' ST.  JOHN. 

XXII. 

"  0  saved,  not  lost,  —  Madonna,  bless  thy  child  ! " 
She  murmured  then ;  and  I  as  fondly,  "  Death 
Come  now,  and  close  my  over-happy  breath 
On  sacred  lips,  that  shall  not  be  defiled 
By  grosser  kisses ! "     «  Fail  me  not,"  she  said, 
And  clung  the  closer,  —  "  God  is  overhead, 
And  hears  you."     "Yea,"  I  whispered  wild, 
"And  may  His  thunder  strike  the  false  one  dead!" 

xxm. 

No  thought  had  she  of  lineage  or  of  place : 
Love  washed  the  colors  from  her  blazoned  shield 
To  make  a  mirror  for  her  lover's  face, 
Unto  patrician  ignorance  revealed 
The  bliss  to  give,  the  ecstasy  to  yield, 
And  now,  descended  from  her  stately  dream, 
She  trod  the  happy  level  of  her  race, 
In  perfect,  sweet  surrender,  faith  supreme. 


THE    WOMAN.  77 

XXIV. 

With  cautious  feet,  in  dewy  sandals  shod, 
And  sidelong  look,  the  perfumed  Hours  went  by ; 
Until  the  azure  darkness  of  the  sky 
Withered  aloft,  and  shameless  Morning  trod 
Her  clashing  bells.     Our  paradise  was  past, 
And  yet  to  part  was  bitterer  than  to  die. 
We  rose :  we  turned :  we  held  each  other  fast, 
Each  kiss  the  fonder  as  it  seemed  the  last. 

XXV. 

0  happy  Earth !     To  Love's  triumphant  heart 

Thou  still  art  convoyed  by  the  singing  stars 

That  hailed  thy  birth:  Heaven's  beauteous  counterpart, 

No  shadow  dims  thee,  no  convulsion  mars 

Thy  fair  green  bosom:  on  thy  forehead  shine 

The  golden  lilies  of  the  bridegroom  Day, 

Thy  hoary  forests  take  the  bloom  of  May, 

Thy  seas  the  sparkle  of  the  autumn's  wine ! 


78  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXVI. 

Serenely  beautiful,  the  brightening  morn 
Led  on  the  march  of  mine  enchanted  round 
Of  days,  wherein  the  world  was  freshly  born, 
And  men  with  primal  purity  recrowned : 
So  deep  my  drunkenness  of  heart  and  brain, 
That  Art,  o'ershadowed,  sat  as  if  forlorn 
In  Love's  excess  of  glory,  and  in  vain 
Essayed  my  old  allegiance  to  regain. 

xxm. 

She  to  the  regions  o'er  our  lives  unfurled 
Is  turned :  from  that  which  never  is,  she  draws 
Her  best  achievements  and  her  finest  laws, 
And  more  enriches  than  she  owes,  the  world,  — 
Whence,  leading  Life,  she  rules  ;  till  Life,  in  turn, 
Feels  in  its  veins  the  warmer  ether  burn, 
Asserts  itself,  and  bids  its  service  pause, 
To  be  the  beauty  it  was  vowed  to  earn! 


THE    WOMAN.  79 

XXVIII. 
And  my  transfigured  heart  no  baby-love, 

With  dimpled  face,  had  taken  to  its  nest, 

«» 

But  that  Titanic,  pre-Olympian  guest, 

The  elder  god,  who  bears  his  slaves  above 

The  fret  of  Time,  the  frowns  of  Circumstance ; 

And,  twin  with  Will,  engendered  in  my  breast 

A  certain  vision  of  a  life  in  rest, 

And  love  secured  against  the  shocks  of  chance. 

XXIX. 

It  was  enough  to  feel  his  potent  arm 
Lift  me  aloft,  like  giant  Christopher, 
Above  the  flood.     Could  he  the  dragon  charm 
Whose  fanged  and  gilded  strength  still  guarded  her  ? 
The  crumbling  pride  of  twice  three  hundred  years, 
Trembling  in  dotage  at  the  ghost  of  harm, 
Could  he  subdue  ?     Ah,  wherefore  summon  fears 
To  vex  the  faith  that  never  reappears! 


80  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 


XXX. 

But  she  the  more,  whose  swift-approaching  fate 

Shamed  the  exulting  bliss  that  made  me  free, 

And  clouded  hers,  thereon  did  meditate. 

When  next  she  met  me  at  the  garden-gate, 

Its  chilling  shadow  fell  upon  me.     "  See ! " 

She  said,  and  dangled  in  the  balmy  dark 

(The  moon  was  down)  a  chain  of  jewelry, 

That,  snake-like,  burned  with  many  a  diamond  spark. 

XXXI. 

"  His  bridal  gift !  "  she  whispered  :  "  he  will  come, 
Erelong,  to  claim  me.     Speech,  and  tears,  and  prayer, 
Are  vain  my  father's  will  to  overbear, 
And  better  were  it,  had  my  lips  been  dumb. 
Incredulous,  he  heard  with  wondering  stare 
My  pleading :  <  keep  me,  father,  at  your  side ! 
I  will  not  be  that  wanton  prince's  bride,  — 
Unwed,  your  lonely  palace  let  me  share ! ' 


THE    WOMAN.  81 

XXXII. 

"  Much  more  I  said,  not  daring  to  reveal 

Our  secret ;  but,  alas !  I  spoke  in  vain. 

He  coldly  smiled  and  raised  me :  'do  not  kneel,  — 

'Tis  useless:  here's  a  pretty,  childish  rain 

For  nothing,  but  the  sun  will  shine  anon. 

What  ails  the  girl  ?  the  compact  shall  remain. 

Pandolfo's  name  is  not  so  newly  won, 

That  we  can  smutch  it  and  not  feel  the  stain.' 

XXXIII. 

"  He  spoke  my  doom ;  but  death  were  sweeter  now, 

Since,  0  my  best-beloved,  life  alone 

Is  where  your  eyes,  your  lips,  can  meet  my  own, 

And  Heaven  commands,  that  registered  your  vow, 

To  save  me,  and  fulfil  it!"     Then,  around 

My  neck  her  white,  imploring  arms  were  thrown; 

Her  heart  beat  in  mine  ears  with  plaintive  sound, 

So  close  and  piteously  she  held  me  bound. 

4* 


82  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXXIV. 

Ah  me!  'twas  needless  further  to  rehearse 
The  old  romance,  that  life  has  ne'er  belied, 
The  old  offence  which  Love  repeats  to  pride, — 
The  strife,  the  supplication,  and  the  curse 
Hung  like  a  thunder-cloud  above  the  dawn, 
To  threat  the  day :  it  better  seemed,  to  fly 
Beyond  the  circle  of  that  sullen  sky, 
And  storms  let  idly  loose  when  we  were  gone. 

XXXV. 

"  Darling,"  I  answered,  staking  all  my  fate 
On  the  sole  chance  within  my  beggared  hands, - 
"  Darling,  the  wealth  of  love  is  my  estate, 
Save  one  poor  home,  that  in  a  valley  stands, 
Cool,  dark,  and  lonesome,  far  beyond  the  line 
Of  wintry  peaks  that  guard  the  summer  lands ; 
But  shelter  safe,  though  paler  suns  may  shine, 
And  Paradise,  when  once  'tis  yours  and  mine! 


THE    WOMAN.  83 

XXXVI. 

"  See !     I  am  all  I  give  :  I  cannot  ask 
That  you  should  leave  the  laurel  and  the  rose, 
And  halls  of  yellowing  marble,  meant  to  bask 
In  endless  sun,  and  airs  of  old  repose 
That  fan  the  beauteous  ages,  elsewhere  lost, — 
To  see  the  world  put  on  its  deathly  mask 
Of  low,  gray  sky  and  ever-deepening  snows, 
And  dip  its  bowers  in  darkness  and  in  frost." 

XXXVII. 

"  Nay,  let "  (she  cried)  "  his  mellow  marbles  shine 
In  Roman  noons,  —  his  fountains  flap  the  airs, 
And  rank  and  splendor  crowd  his  gilded  stairs, 
Wait  in  his  halls,  or  drink  his  banquet-wine,  — 
So  ne'er  the  hateful  pomp  I  spurn  be  mine ; 
But  take  me,  love  !  for  ah,  the  father,  too, 
Who  for  his  early  claims  my  later  cares, 
Is  leagued  with  him,  —  and  I  am  left  to  you ! " 


84  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXXVIII. 

"  So,  then,  shall  Summer  cross  the  Alpine  chain 
And  scare  the  autumn  crocus  from  the  meads ; 
And  the  wan  naiads,  'mid  their  brittle  reeds, 
Feel  the  chill  wave  its  languid  pulse  regain, 
Wooing  the  azure  brook-flowers  into  bloom 
To  greet  your  coming ;  and  the  golden  rain 
Of  beechen  forests  shall  your  path  illume, 
Till  the  Year's  bonfire  burn  away  its  gloom  ! " 

XXXIX. 

Thus,  at  her  words,  my  sudden  rapture  threw 

Its  glory  on  the  scene  so  bleak  before, 

As  to  the  nightly  mariner  a  shore 

That  out  of  hollow  darkness  slowly  grew, 

Seeming  huge  cliffs  that  menaced  with  the  roar 

Of  hungry  surf,  when  Morning  lifts  her  torch 

Flashes  at  once  to  gardens  dim  with  dew, 

And  homes  and  temples  fair  with  pillared  porch. 


THE    WOMAN.  85 

XL. 

We  only  felt,  that  Love  with  his  free  hand 
Should  clasp  his  own :  whatever  lay  beyond 
Of  usage  broken,  gulfs  of  fate  o'erspanned 
By  hearts  all-daring  to  assert  their  bond, 
Of  laws  contemned,  or  foresight  cast  aside, 
He  was  our  Providence  by  sea  or  land 
Thenceforth,  —  our  sole  protector,  stay,  and  guide 
In  the  new  life  and  in  the  world  untried. 

XLI. 

"  Away  !  "  was  his  command,  and  we  obeyed ; 
And  Chance  assisted,  ere  three  times  the  sun 
Looked  o'er  the  planet's  verge,  that  swiftly  spun 
To  bring  the  hour,  so  perilously  delayed 
My  fortune  with  Colonna's  now  was  weighed; 
But  that  brief  time  of  love's  last  liberty  — 
Pandolfo  called  to  Rome,  ere  aught  betrayed 
His  daughter's  secret  —  turned  the  scale  to  me. 


86  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XL  II. 

My  mules  were  waiting  by  the  city  gate, 
With  Gianni,  quick  to  lead  a  lover's  fate 
Along  the  bridle-paths  of  Apennine, — 
A  gallant  contadino,  whom  I  knew 
From  crown  to  sole,  each  joint  and  clear-drawn  line 
Of  plaited  muscle,  healthy,  firm,  and  true; 
And  midnight  struck,  as  from  the  garden  came 
She  who  forsook  for  me  her  home  and  name. 

XLIII. 

With  them  she  laid  aside  her  silken  shell 
And  jewel-sparks,  and  chains  of  moony  pearl,  — 
Bright,  babbling  toys,  that  of  her  rank  might  tell, — 
And  wore,  to  cheat  the  drowsy  sentinel, 
The  scarlet  bodice  of  a  peasant-girl, 
Her  wealth  the  golden  dagger  in  her  hair: 
The  haughty  vestures  from  her  beauty  fell, 
Leaving  her  woman,  simply  pure  and  fair. 


THE    WOMAN.  87 

XLIV. 

The  gate  was  passed:  before  us,  through  the  night, 
We  traced  the  dusky  road,  and  far  away, 
Where  ceased  the  stars,  we  knew  the  mountains  lay. 
There  must  we  climb  before  their  shoulders,  white 
With  autumn  rime,  should  redden  to  the  day  ; 
But  now  a  line  of  faintly-scattered  light 
Plays  o'er  the  dust,  and  the  old  olives  calls 
To  ghostly  life  above  the  orchard-walls. 

XLV. 

A  little  chapel,  built  by  pious  hands, 
That  foot-sore  pilgrims  from  the  blistering  soil 
May  turn,  or  laborers  from  summer  toil 
To  rest  that  breathes  of  God,  it  open  stands ; 
And  there  her  shrine  with  daily  flowers  is  drest, 
Her  lamp  is  nightly  trimmed  and  fed  with  oil, 
The  Mater  Dolorosa,  in  whose  breast, 
Bleeding,  the  seven  swords  of  woe  are  pressed. 


88  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XL  VI. 

"  Stay ! "  whispered  Clelia,  as  the  narrow  vault 
Yawned  with  its  faded  frescoes,  and  the  lamp 
Revealed,  untouched  by  rust  or  blurred  with  damp, 
The  Virgin's  face  :  it  beckoned  us  to  halt 
And  lay  our  love  before  her  feet  divine, 
A  priestless  sacrament, — so,  kneeling  there 
In  self-bestowed  espousal,  Clelia's  prayer 
Spake  to  the  Mother's  heart  her  trust  in  mine. 

XL  VII. 

"O  Sorrowing  Mother!  Heaven's  exalted  Queen! 
Star  of  the  Sea !  Lily  among  the  Thorns  ! 
Clothed  with  the  sun,  while  round  Thy  feet  serene 
The  crescent  planet  curves  her  silver  horns, 
Be  Thou  my  star  to  still  this  trembling  sea 
Within  my  bosom,  —  let  the  love  that  mourns 
One  with  the  love  that  here  rejoices,  be, 
Soothed  in  Thy  peace,  acceptable  to  Thee ! 


THE    WOMAN.  89 

XL  VIII. 

"Thou  who  dost  hide  the  maiden's  virgin  fear 
In  Thine  enclosed  garden,  Fountain  sealed 
Of  Woman's  holiest  secrets,  bend  Thine  ear 
To  these  weak  words  of  one  whose  heart  must  yield 
This  temple  of  the  body  Thou  didst  wear 
To  love,  —  and  by  Thy  pity,  oft  revealed, 
Pure  Priestess,  hearken  to  Thy  daughter's  prayer, 
And  bless  the  bond,  of  other  blessing  bare ! 

XLIX. 

"  Mother  of  Wisdom,  in  whose  heart  are  thrust 
The  seven  swords  of  Sorrow,  in  whose  pain 
Thy  chaste  Divinity  draws  near  again 
To  maids  and  mothers,  crying  from  the  dust, — 
Who  ne'er  forgettest  any  human  woe, 
Once  doubly  Thine,  Thy  grace  and  comfort  show, 
And  perfect  make,  O  Star  above  the  Sea, 
These  nuptial  pledges,  only  heard  by  Thee ! 


90  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

L. 

"  Incline  Thy  countenance  from  that  clear  throne 

Beside  Thy  Son,  for  Thou  didst  ne'er  deny 

i 
Compassion  unto  love,  and  I  have  known 

No  mother's  tenderness  save  Thine  alone : 
Behold!  I  lift  my  face  to  meet,  Thy  child, 
The  chaste  inquiry  of  Thy  gentle  eye : 
O  Mother  kind,  O  Virgin  Undefiled, 
Pardon,  accept,  and  bless,  and  sanctify ! " 

LI. 

Then  Clelia's  hand  entrusted  she  to  mine, 
Who  knelt  beside  her,  and  the  vow  she  spake, 
Weeping:  "I  take  him,  Mother,  at  Thy  shrine. 
Home,  country,  father,  leave  I  for  his  sake, 
Give  my  pure  name,  my  maiden  honor  break 
For  him,  my  spouse !  "     And  I :  "  I  give  my  life, 
Chaste,  faithful  to  the  end,  to  her,  my  wife, 
Whom  here,  0  Mother,  at  Thy  hands  I  take ! " 


THE    WOMAN.  91 

LII. 
Thus,  in  the  lack  of  Earth's  ordaining  rite, 

Did  our  own  selves  our  union  consecrate ; 

» 
But  God  was  listening  from  the  hollow  Night. 

Beyond  the  stars  we  felt  His  smile  create 
Dawn  in  the  doubtful  twilight  of  our  fate : 
Peace  touched  our  hearts  and  sacredest  content : 
The  veil  was  lifted  from  our  perfect  light 
Of  nuptial  love,  pure-burning,  reverent. 

LIII. 

For  Eden's  lovely  pastoral  repeats 
Its  music,  when,  beneath  the  sky  of  youth 
The  full-formed  man  the  answering  woman  meets, 
And  sex  in  sex,  as  heart  in  heart,  the  truth 
Breaks  in  eternal  beauty,  fresh  as  when 
Its  primal  rapture  filled  the  green  retreats 
Of  the  unpeopled  world  —  some  sacred  glen, 
Where  the  first  woman  blessed  the  first  of  men  ! 


92  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LIV. 
The  Sorrowing  Mother  gazed.     So  pure  the  kiss 

I  gave,  Her  own  divinest  lips  had  ta'en 

& 

From  mine  no  trace  of  sense-reflected  stain ; 

But  Gianni  called  us  from  the  dream  of  bliss. 

"  Haste,  Signor,  haste ! "  he  cried :  "  the  Bear  drops  low ; 

Soon  will  the  cocks  in  all  the  gardens  crow 

The  morning  watch:  day  comes,  and  night  again, 

But  come  to  part,  not  mate,  unless  you  go ! " 

LV. 

Then  silent,  side  by  side,  we  forward  fled 
Through  the  chill  airs  of  night :  each  falling  hoof 
Beat  like  a  flail  beneath  the  thresher's  roof, 
In  quick,  unvarying  time:  and  rosy-red 
Crept  o'er  the  gray,  as  nimbly  Gianni  led 
Our  devious  flight  along  the  barren  steeps, 
Till,  far  beyond  the  sinking,  misty  deeps, 
The  sun  forsook  his  Adriatic  bed. 


THE    WOMAN.  93 

LVI. 

There  is  a  village  perched,  as  you  emerge 
From  the  Santerno's  long  and  winding  vale 
Towards  Imolk,  upon  the  cliffy  verge 
Of  the  last  northern  prop  of  Apennine, — 
Old,  yellow  houses,  hinting  many  a  tale 
Of  ducal  days  and  Este's  tragic  line, 
And  over  all  uplifted,  orange-pale 
Against  the  blue,  a  belfry  slim  and  fine. 

LVII. 

With  weary  climbing  of  the  rocky  stair 
Thither  we  came,  and  in  a  hostel  rude 
Sat  down,  outworn,  to  breathe  securer  air, 
Our  guide  dismissed,  nor  eyes  that  might  intrude, 
Among  the  simple  inmates  of  the  place. 
The  brightest  stars  of  heaven  watched  o'er  us  there 
In  sweet  conjunction,  every  dread  to  chase, 
To  close  the  Past,  and  make  the  Future  fair. 


94  THE    PICTUEE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LVIII. 

Ah,  had  we  dared  to  linger  in  that  nest,  — 
To  watch,  from  under  overhanging  eaves, 
The  loaded  vines,  the  poplars'  twinkling  leaves, — 
Afar,  the  breadth  of  the  Romagna's  breast 
And  Massa's,  Lugo's  towers,  —  the  little  stir 
Of  innocent  life,  caress  and  be  caressed, 
Rank,  Art,  and  Fame  among  the  things  that  were, 
And  all  her  bliss  in  me,  as  mine  in  her ! 

LIX. 

But  Florence  was  too  near:   my  purpose  held 
To  bear  and  hide  our  happiness  afar 
In  the  dark  mountains,  lonely,  greenest-dell ed ; 
And  still,  each  night,  the  never-setting  star 
"We  followed  took  in  heaven  a  loftier  stand, — 
Sparkled  on  other  rivers,  other  towns, 
Glinting  from  icy  horns  and  snowy  crowns 
Until  we  trod  the  green  Bavarian  land ! 


THE    WOMAN.  95 

LX. 

And  evermore,  behind  us  on  the  road, 
Pursuit,  a  phantom,  drove.     If  we  delayed, 
Some  coward  pulse  our  meeting  bosoms  frayed ; 
Our  tale  the  breezes  blew,  the   sunshine  glowed; 
The  stars  our  secret  ecstasies  betrayed : 
Drunk  with  our  passion's  vintage,  we  must  fill 
The  cup  too  full,  and  tremble  lest  it  spill,  — 
Obeying,  thus,  the  law  we  would  evade. 

LXI. 

Now,  from  that  finer  ether  sinking  down 
Into  the  humble,  universal  air, 
The  images  of  many  a  human  care 
That,  wren-like,  build  beneath  the  thatch  of  love, 
Came  round  us.     O'er  the  levels,  brown 
With  autumn  stubble,  the  departing  dove 
Cooed  her  farewell  to  summer:  rainy-cold 
Through  rocky  gates  the  yellow  Danube  rolled. 


96  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXII. 

Grim  were  the  mountains,  with  their  dripping  pines 
Planted  in  sodden  moss,  and  swiftly  o'er 
Their  crests  the  clouds  their  flying  fleeces  tore : 
The  herd-boy,  from  his  lair  of  furze  and  vines 
Peered  out,  beside  his  dogs ;   and  forms  uncouth, 
The  axemen,  from  the  steeps  descending,  wore 
The  strength  of  manhood,  but  its  grace  no  more, — 
The  lust,  without  the  loveliness,  of  youth ! 

LXIII. 

The  swollen  streams  careered  beside  us,  hoarse 
As  warning  prophets  in  an  evil  age, 
And  through  the  stormy  fastnesses  our  course, 
Blown,  buffeted  with  elemental  rage, 
Fell,  with  the  falling  night,  to  that  lone  vale 
I  pictured,  with  its  meads  of  crocus-bloom, — 
Ah  me,  engulfed  and  lost  in  drowning  gloom, 
The  helpless  sport  and  shipwreck  of  the  gale ! 


THE    WOMAN.  97 

LXIV. 

Where  now  the  bright  autumnal  bonfires  ?     Where 

The  gold  of  beechen  woods,  the  prodigal 

And  dazzling  waste  of  color  in  its  fall  ? 

The  brook-flowers,  bluer  than  the  morning-air? 

"  My  pomp  of  welcome  mocked  you,   love !  "     I  sighed  : 

"The  sign  was  false,  the  flattering  dream  denied: 

Unkind  is  Nature,  yet  all  skies  are  fair 

To  trusting  hearts,  when  once  their  truth  is  tried! 

LXV. 

But  Clelia  shuddered,  clinging  to  my  heart 
When  the  low  roof  received  us,  and  the  sound 
Of  threshing  branches  boomed  and  whistled  round 
Our  cot,  that  stood  a  little  way  apart 
Against  the  forest,  from  the  village  strayed, 
Where  cunning  workmen  in  their  prisons  bound 
The  roaring  Fiend  of  Fire,  and  forced  his  aid 
To  mould  the  crystal  wonders  of  their  trade. 


98  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXVI. 

Poor  was  our  home,  and  when  the  rainy  sky 
Brought  forth  a  child  of  Night,  an  Ethiop  day, 
And  still  the  turbid  torrents  thundered  by, 
From  the  drear  landscape  she  would  turn  away, — 
Her  thoughts,  perchance,  where  gilded  Florence  lay, 
To  hide  a  tear,  or  crush  a  rising  sigh, 
Then  sing  the  sweet  Italian  songs,  where  run 
Twin  rills  of  words  and  music  into  one. 

LXVII. 

I,  too,  beneath  the  low-hung  rafters,  saw 
In  dusk  that  filtered  through  the  narrow  panes, 
My  palette  spread  with  colors  dull  and  raw, 
Once  ripe  and  juicy-fresh  as  blossom-stains. 
The  dim,  beclouded  season  never  brought 
The  light  that  flatters  ;  but  its  mists  and  rains 
Like  eating  rust  upon  my  canvas  wrought, 
And  turned  to  substance  cold  the  tinted  thought. 


THE    WOMAN.  99 

LXVIII. 

The  pure  Arcadian  dream  inspired  me  yet, 
Spared  to  the  world  in  matchless  forms  antique, 
And  in  those  radiant  pictures,  where  are  met 
The  soul  of  Christian  Art,  the  brain  of  Greek, 
Wedded  in  life  which  perfect  color  warms, 
And  power  upholds,  and  tender  grace  informs; 
Nor  could  my  heart  its  young  resolve  forget 
To  carve  my  name  upon  that  haughty  peak. 

LXIX. 

So  here  I  missed  those  living  wells,  whence  drew 
The  Masters,  breathing  Art's  best  atmosphere, 
With  fine  and  noble  forms  forever  near ;  — 
No  shape  of  man,  but  something  did  imbue 
With  hints  of  beauty,  on  those  sunny  hills : 
And,  helped  on  every  side,  the  Ideal  grew 
Direct  from  Nature,  as  the  rose  distils 
From  earth  undying  scent  and  heavenly  hue. 


100  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXX. 

/ 

Around  me  moved  a  rough  and  simple  race 
Whose  natures,  fresh  and  uncontaminate, 
Gave  truth  to  life  and  smoothed  their  toilful  fate 
With  honesty  and  love  —  but  lacked  the  grace 
Of  strength  allied  to  beauty,  or  the  free, 
Unconscious  charm  of  Southern  symmetry, 
And  motions  measured  by  a  rhythm  elate 
And  joyous  as  the  cadence  of  the  sea. 

LXXI. 

Our  valley  gave  my  hand  but  homely  themes 
Of  peasant  life,  —  plump  children  at  their  play; 
The  shepherd  lads,  the  girls  in  quaint  array  ; 
Who  lent  no  forms  to  shape  the  stately  dreams 
Which,  prisoned  in  some  void  of  fancy,  pained 
My  thwarted  aspiration,  mocked  the  gleams 
Ideal  of  regions  whitherward  I  strained, 
And  crushed  my  hope  with  yearnings  unattained. 


THE    WOMAN.  101 

LXXII. 

For  if,  at  times,  among  the  slaves  who  fed 
The  ever-burning  kilns,  in  fiercest  glow 
Some  naked  torso  momently  would  show 
Like  Hell's  strong  angel,  dipped  in  lurid  red, 
No  model  this  for  Saviour,  seraph,  saint, 
Ensphered  in  golden  ether :    Labor's  taint 
Defaced  the  form,  and  here  't  were  vain,  I  said, 
Some  lovely  hint  to  find,  and  finding,  paint ! 

LXXIII. 

Ah,  Art  and  Love !   Immortal  brother-gods, 
That  will  not  dwell  together,  nor  apart, 
But  make  your  temple  in  your  servant's  heart 
A  house  of  battle !    One  his  forehead  nods 
In  drowsy  bliss,  and  will  not  be  disturbed, 
The  other's  eager  forces  work  uncurbed, 
Yet  most  in  each  the  other  lives  ;  and  each 
Mounts  by  the  other's  help  his  crown  to  reach. 


102  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXIV. 

To  Love  my  debt  was  greatest :    I  compelled 
Back  to  their  sleep  the  dreams  that  stung  in  vain, 
And  folded  Clelia  in  a  love  which  held 
The  heart  all  fire,  although  its  flame  was  nursed 
By  embers  borrowed  from  the  smouldering  brain. 
For  her  had  Art  aspired ;  but  now,  reversed 
The  duty,  Art  for  her  must  abnegate 
Its  restless,  proud  resolves,  and  idly  wait. 

LXXV. 

The  rains  had  whitened  in  the  upper  air, 
And  left  their  chill  memorials  glittering  now 
On  Arber's  shoulders,  Ossa's  horned  brow ; 
The  summer  forest  of  its  gold  was  bare ; 
Loud  o'er  the  changeless  pines  November  drove 
His  frosty  steeds,  through  narrowing  days  that  wear 
No  light;  and  Winter  settled  from  above, 
White,  heavy,  cold,  around  our  nest  of  love. 


THE    WOMAN.  103 

LXXVI. 

The  sportive  fantasies  of  wind  and  snow, 
The  corniced  billows  which  they  love  to  pile, 
The  ermined  woods,  with  boughs  depending  low, 
To  buttress  frozenly  each  darksome  aisle, 
The  spectral  hills  which  twilight  veils  in  dun, 
The  season's  hushing  sounds,  —  my  Clelia  won 
From  haunting  memories,  and  stayed  awhile 
Her  home-sick  pining  for  the  Tuscan  sun. 

LXXVII. 

Only,  when  after  briefest  day,  the  moon 
Poured  down  an  icy  light,  and  all  around 
Came  from  the  iron  woods  a  crackling  sound, 
As  from  the  stealthy  steps  of  Cold,  and  soon 
The  long-drawn  howl  of  famished  wolf  was  heard 
Far  in  the  mountains,  like  a  shuddering  bird 
Beside  my  heart  a  nestling  place  she  found, 
And  smiled  to  hear  my  fond,  assuring  word. 


104  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXVIII. 

So  drifted  on,  till  Death's  white  shadow  passed 
From  edged  air  and  stony  earth,  our  fate : 
Then  from  the  milder  cloud  and  loosening  blast 
Unto  his  sunnier  nooks  returning  late, 
Came  Life,  and  let  his  flowery  footprint  stand. 
Softer  than  wing  of  dove,  the  winds  at  last 
Kissed  where  they  smote ;  the  skies  were  blue  and  bland, 
And  in  their  lap  reposed  the  ravished  land. 

LXXIX. 

Then  tears  of  gummy  crystal  wept  the  pine, 

And  like  a  phantom  plume,  the  sea-green  larch 

Was  dropped  along  the  mountain's  lifted  arch, 

And  morning  on  the  meadows  seemed  to  shine, 

All  day,  in  blossoms :  cuckoo-songs  were  sweet, 

And  sweet  the  pastoral  music  of  the  kine 

Chiming  a  thousand  bells  aloft,  to  meet 

The  herdsman's  horn,  the  young  lamb's  wandering  bleat ! 


THE    WOMAN.  105 

m 

LXXX. 

Under  the  forest's  sombre  eaves  there  slept 

No  darkness,  but  a  balsam-breathing  shade, 

Rained  through  with  light:   the  hurrying  waters  made 

Music  amid  the  solitude,  and  swept 

Their  noise  of  liquid  laughter  from  afar, 

Through  smells  of  sprouting  leaf  and  trampled  grass, 

And  thousand  tints  of  flowery  bell  and  star, 

To  sing  the  year's  one  idyl  ere  it  pass ! 

LXXXI. 

And  down  the  happy  valleys  wandered  we, 

Released  and  glad,  the  children  of  the  sun,  — 

I  by  adoption  and  by  nature  she,  — 

And  still  our  love  a  riper  color  won 

From  the  strong  god  in  whom  all  colors  burn. 

The  Earth  regained  her  ancient  alchemy 

To  cheat  our  souls  with  dreams  of  what  might  be, 

And  never  is,  —  yet,  wherefore  these  unlearn  ? 
5* 


106  THE    PICTUEE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXXII. 

For  they  reclothe  us  with  a  mantle,  lent 

From  the  bright  wardrobe  of  the  Gods:  the  powers, 

The  glories  of  the  Possible  are  ours: 

We  breathe  the  pure,  sustaining  element 

Above  the  dust  of  life,  —  steal  fresh  content 

From  distant  gleams  of  never-gathered  flowers, — 

Believing,  rise :  our  very  failures  wear 

Immortal  grace  from  what  we  vainly  dare ! 

LXXXIII. 

From  dreams  like  these  is  shaped  the  splendid  act 
In  painters',  poets'  brains :  we  let  them  grow, 
And  as  the  season  rolled  in  richer  flow 
To  summer,  from  their  waves  a  wondrous  fact 
Uprose,  and  shamed  them  with  diviner  glow, — 
A  tremulous  secret,  mystic,  scarce-confessed, 
That,  star-like,  throbs  within  the  coarsest  breast, 
And  sets  God's  joy  beside  His  creature's  woe. 


THE    WOMAN.  107 

LXXXIT. 

As  one  may  see,  along  some  April  rill, 
By  richest  mould  and  softest  dew-fall  fed, 
The  day-break  blossom  of  a  daffodil 
Send  from  its  heart  a  tenderer  blossom  still, 
Flower  bearing  flower,  so  fair  a  marvel  shed 
Its  bliss  on  Clelia's  being;  and  she  smiled 
With  those  prophetic  raptures  which  fulfil 
The  mother's  nature  ere  she  clasps  her  child. 

LXXXV. 

Between  our  hearts,  embracing  both,  there  stole 

A  silent  Presence,  like  to  that  which  reigns 

In  Heaven,  when  God  another  world  ordains. 

Here,  in  its  genesis,  a  formless  soul 

Waited  the  living  garment  it  should  wear 

Of  holiest  flesh,  though  ours  were  dark  with  stains,  — 

Yet  clouds  that  blot  the  blue,  eternal  air, 

Upon  their  folds  the  rainbow's  beauty  bear ! 


108  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXXVI. 

Our  bliss  in  each  bowed  humbly  down  before 

This  revelation :  other  glory  came, 

A  solemn  joy,  a  whitest  offering-flame 

Fed  with  our  prayers,  and  sent  its  radiance  o'er 

The  brinks  of  life,  and  thus  the  season  wore 

In  fond  suspense  and  sacred  idleness  — 

A  long,  long  summer  Sabbath  —  to  the  shore 

Where  Death  should  smite  or  Life  should  doubly  bless. 

LXXXVII. 

And  none  of  all  the  folk  we  moved  among 
In  that  lone  valley,  whether  man  or  maid, 
Or  weary  woman,  prematurely  wrung 
To  bear  the  lusty  flock  that  round  her  played, 
But  spake  to  Clelia  in  a  gentler  tongue 
And  unto  her  their  timid  reverence  paid, 
As,  in  her  life  repeated,  one  might  see 
Madonna's  pure  maternal  sanctity! 


THE    WOMAN.  109 

LXXXVIII. 

All  knew  the  lady,  beautiful  and  tall, — 
Dark,  yet  so  pale  in  her  strange  loveliness, 
Whom  oft  they  saw  with  gliding  footstep  press 
The  meads,  the  forest's  golden  floor;  and  all 
Knew  the  enchanted  voice,  whose  alien  song 
Silenced  the  mountains,  till  the  woodman  lone 
His  axe  let  fall,  and  dreamed  and  listened  long,  — 
The  key-flower  plucked,  the  fairy  gold  his  own  ! 

LXXXIX. 

Never,  they  said,  did  year  its  bounty  shower 
So  plenteously  upon  their  fields,  as  now. 
The  lady  brought  their  fortune  :  many  a  vow 
Would  rise  to  help  her  in  her  woman's  hour 
Of  pain  and  joy,  and  what  their  hands  could  do 
(The  will  was  boundless,  though  so  mean  the  power) 
Was  hers,  —  their  queen,  the  fairest  thing  they  knew 
Within  the  circle  of  the  mountains  blue. 


110  THE    PICTUEE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XC. 

And  Autumn  came,  like  him  from  Edom,  him 
With  garments  dyed,  from  Bozrah,  glorious 
In  his  apparel;  yet  his  gold  was  dim, 
His  crimsons  pale,  beside  the  splendors  warm 
Wherewith  the  ripened  time  transfigured  us. 
The  precious  atoms  drawn  from  heaven  and  earth, 
And  rocked  by  Love's  own  music  into  form, 
Compacted  lived :  a  soul  awaited  birth. 

xci. 

A  soul  was  born.     The  hazy-mantled  sun 
Looked  in  on  Clelia,  radiant  as  a  saint 
Who  triumphs  over  torture,  pale  and  faint 
From  parted  life,  —  and  kissed  the  life  begun 
With  tender  light,  as  quick  to  recognize 
His  child,  in  exile :  the  unconscious  one,  — 
Stray  lamb  of  heaven,  whom  tears  might  best  baptize, 
Closed  on  her  happy  breast  his  mothers  eyes. 


THE    WOMAN.  Ill 

XCII. 

Her  eyes  they  were:  her  fresh-born  beauty  took 
Its  seat  in  man,  that  woman's  heart  might  bow 
One  day,  before  the  magic  of  that  look 
Which  conquered  man  and  held  him  captive  now. 
The  frail  and  precious  mould  which  drew  from  me 
Naught  but  its  sex,  her  likeness  did  endow 
"With  breathing  grace  and  witching  symmetry, 
As  once  in  baby  demigod  might  be. 

xcin. 

So  came  from  him  —  as  in  Correggio's  "  Night " 
The  body  of  the  Holy  Child  illumes 
The  stable  dark,  the  starry  Syrian  glooms, 
The  rapt,  adoring  faces,  —  sudden  light 
For  that  dark  season  when  the  sun  hung  low ; 
And  warmth,  when  earth  again  lay  cold  and  white  ; 
And  peace,  Love  reconciled  with  Life  to  know ; 
And  promise,  kindling  Art  to  rosier  glow. 


112  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XCIV. 

Here  dawned  the  inspiration,  long  delayed, 
The  light  of  loftier  fancy.     As  she  pressed, 
Cradled  against  her  balmy  mother-breast, 
The  child  —  a  pink  on  sun-kissed  lilies  laid  — 
I  saw  the  type  of  old  achievement  won 
In  them,  the  holy  hint  their  forms  conveyed  : 
And  lovelier  never  God's  Elected  Maid 
And  Goddess-Mother  dreamed  Urbino's  son  ! 

xcv. 

But  she  —  when  first  mine  eager  hand  would  seize 
Her  perfect  beauty  —  troubled  grew,  and  pale. 
"  Dear  Egon,  No  ! "  she  said :  "  my  heart  would  fail, 
Alarmed  for  love  that  wraps  in  sanctities 
Its  earthly  form :  for  see  !   the  babe  may  lie 
With  white,  untainted  soul,  and  in  his  eye 
The  light  of  Heaven,  and  pure  as  almond-flowers 
His  dimpling  flesh,  —  but,  Egon,  he  is  ours ! 


THE    WOMAN.  113 

XCVI. 

"  If  blessing  may  be  forfeited,  to  set 
A  child,  the  loveliest,  in  the  place  divine 
Of  Infant  God,  it  were  more  impious  yet 
To  veil  the  Mother's  countenance  in  mine : 
Ah,  how  should  I,  to  human  love  though  fair, 
Assume  her  grace  and  with  her  pity  shine, — 
Profane  usurpress  of  her  sacred  shrine, 
To  cheat  the  vow  and  intercept  the  prayer ! " 

xcvn. 

A  woman's  causeless  fancy !    What  I  said 
I  scarce  remember,  —  that  the  face  I  stole 
Had  brought  herself,  and  if  the  half  so  wrought, 
A  surer  blessing  now  must  bring  the  whole, 
And  laurel  cast,  not  jasmine,  on  my  head. 
The  profanation  was  a  thing  of  thought, 
Or  touched  the  artist  only :  who  could  paint, 
If  saint  alone  dare  model  be  for  saint  ? 


114  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XCVIII. 

And  so,  by  Art  possessed,  I  would  not  see 
Forebodings  which  in  woman's  finer  sense 
Arise,  and  draw  their  own  fulfilment  thence, — 
Light  clouds,  yet  hide  the  bolts  of  Destiny 
And  darken  life,  erelong.     I  gave,  in  joy, 
To  fleeting  grace  immortal  permanence, 
And  dreamed  of  coming  fame  for  all  the  three, 
Myself,  the  fairest  mother,  and  the  boy ! 

xcix. 

She  sat,  in  crimson  robe  and  mantle  blue, 
Fondling  the  child  in  holy  nakedness, 
Resigned  and  calm,  —  alas !  I  could  not  guess 
The  haunting  fear  that  daily  deeper  grew 
In  the  sweet  face  that  would  its  fear  subdue, 
Nor  make  my  hand's  creative  rapture  less : 
But  cold  her  kisses  to  my  own  replied, 
And  when  the  work  completed  stood  —  she  sighed, 


THE    WOMAN.  115 

C. 

And  from  that  hour  a  shadow  seemed  to  hang 
Around  her  life :   our  idyl  breathed  no  more 
Its  flute-like  joy  in  every  strain  she  sang : 
Her  step  the  measures  of  an  anthem  wore, 
That  hushes,  soothes,  yet  makes  not  wholly  sad ; 
And  if,  at  times,  my  heart  confessed  a  pang 
To  note  the  haunted  gleam  her  features  had, 
I  failed  to  read  the  prophecy  it  bore. 

Ci. 

Again  the  summer  beckoned  from  the  hills, 
And  back  from  Daulis  came  the  nightingale ; 
But  when  the  willows  shook  by  meadow-rills 
Their  sheeted  silver,  Clelia's  cheek  grew  pale. 
She  spoke  not;   but  I  knew  her  fancy  said 
So  shook  the  olives  now  in  Arno's  vale, 
So  flashed  the  brook  along  its  pebbly  bed, 
Through  bosky  oleanders,  roofed  with  red ! 


116  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

CII. 

This  cheer  I  gave :  "  Be  sure  my  fame  awaits 
The  work  of  love :  this  cloud  will  break,  and  we 
Walk  in  the  golden  airs  of  Tuscany, 
Guarded  by  that  renown  which  consecrates 
Our  fault,  if  love  be  such ;  and  fame  shall  be 
My  shield,  to  shame  your  father's  heraldry, 
And  set  you  in  your  ancient  halls.     Take  heart, 
And  as  my  love  you  trusted,  trust  my  art ! " 

cm. 

She  faintly  smiled,  —  if  smile  the  lips  could  stir 

Which  more  of  yearning  than  of  hope  expressed ; 

A  filmy  mask  to  hide  the  warning  guest 

Of  thought  which  evermore  abode  in  her : 

And  then  she  kissed  me,  —  not,  as  once,  with  fire 

And  lingering  sweetness  drawn  from  love's  desire, 

But  soft,  as  Heaven's  angelic  messenger 

Might  touch  the  lips  of  prayer,  and  make  them  blest  ! 


THE 


PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN 


BOOK    III. 


BOOK    III. 


THE    CHILD. 

I. 

QAD  Son  of  Earth,  if  ever  to  thy  care 

Some  god  intrust  the  dazzling  gift  of  joy, 
Within  thy  trembling  hands  the  burden  bear 
As  if  the  frailest  crystal  shell  it  were, 
One  thrill  of  exultation  might  destroy ! 
Look  to  thy  feet,  take  heed  where  thou  shalt  stand, 
And  arm  thine  eyes  with  fear,  thy  heart  with  prayer, 
Like  one  who  travels  in  a  hostile  land ! 


120  THE   PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

II. 

For,  ever  hovering  in  the  heart  of  day 
Unseen,  above  thee  wait  the  Powers  malign, 
Who  scent  thy  bliss  as  vultures  scent  decay : 
Unveil  thy  secret,  give  one  gladsome  sign, 
Send  up  one  thought  to  chant  beside  the  lark 
In  airy  poise,  and  lo !  the  sky  is  dark 
With  swooping  wings,  —  thy  gift  is  snatched  away 
Ere  dies  the  rapture  which  proclaimed  it  thine ! 

in. 

We  plan  the  houses  which  are  never  built : 
The  volumes  which  our  precious  thoughts  enclose 
Are  never  written :  in  the  falchion's  hilt 
Sleeps  nobler  daring  than  the  hero  shows : 
And  never  Fate  allows  a  life  to  give 
The  measure  of  a  soul,  —  but  incomplete 
Expression  and  imperfect  action  meet, 
To  form  the  tintless  sketch  of  what  we  live. 


THE    CHILD.  121 

IV. 

But  I  was  young,  and  I  believed  there  might 
Be  perfect  bounty,  —  Fame  and  Love  unite 
To  weave  for  me  the  yet  ungranted  crown, 
Ah,  fool !  and  in  my  happy  prophecy 
Evoked  a  doom  to  pluck  its  promise  down. 
'Tis  when  the  distant  mountains  clearest  be, 
Seen  through  the  diamond  lenses  of  the  air, 
That  storms  their  fiercest  bolts  are  forging  there ! 

v. 

I  would  not  see  the  path  that  led  apart 
My  Clelia's  feet,  as  'twere  on  hills  of  cloud, 
But  deemed  the  saintler  light,  whereto  I  bowed 
In  reverence  of  mine  adoring  heart, 
The  mother's  nature :   day  by  day  I  smiled, 
As  higher,  further  drawn,  my  dreams  avowed 
Diviner  types  of  beauty,  —  whence,  beguiled, 
Her  robes  of  heaven  I  wrapped  around  her  child. 


122  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

» 

VI. 

Our  daily  miracle  was  he :   a  bud 

Steeped  in  the  scents  of  Eden,  balmy-fair, 

The  world's  pure  morning  bright  upon  his  hair, 

And  life's  unopened  roses  in  his  blood ! 

In  the  blank  eyes  of  birth  a  timorous  star 

Of  wonder  sparkled,  as  the  soul  awoke, 

And  from  his  tongue  a  brook-like  babbling  broke,  - 

A  strange,  melodious  language  from  afar ! 

VII. 

His  body  showed,  in  every  dimpled  swell, 
The  pink  and  pearl  of  Ocean's  loveliest  shell, 
And  swift  the  little  pulses  throbbed  along 
Their  turquoise  paths,  the  soft  breast  rose  and  fell 
As  to  the  music  of  a  dancing  song, 

And  all  the  darling  graces  which  belong 
f 

To  babyhood,  and  breathe  from  every  limb, 

Made  life  more  beautiful,  revealed  in  him. 


THE    CHILD.  123 

VIII. 

His  mother's  face  I  dared  not  paint  again, 
For  now,  infected  by  her  mystic  dread, 
The  picture  smote  me  with  reproachful  pain ; 
But  often,  bending  o'er  his  cradle-bed 
To  learn  by  heart  the  wondrous  tints  and  lines 
That  charmed  me  so,  my  kindling  fancy  said: 
"  By  thee,  my  Cherub,  shall  mine  art  be  led 
To  clasp  the  Truth  it  now  but  half  divines ! 

IX. 

"  If  I  have  sinned,  to  set  thee  in  the  place 

Of  Infant  God,  the  hand  that  here  offends 

Shall  owe  its  cunning  to  thy  growing  grace, 

And  from  thy  loveliness  make  late  amends. 

Six  summers  more,  and  I  shall  bid  thee  stand 

Before  me,  with  uplift,  prophetic  face, 

And  there  St.  John  shall  grow  beneath  my  hand, — 

A  bright  boy-angel  in  a  desert  land ! 


124  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

X. 

"  Six  summers  more,  and  then,  as  Ganymede's, 
Thy  rosy  limbs  against  the  dark-blue  sky 
Shall  press  the  eagle's  plumage  as  he  speeds; 
Or  darling  Hylas,  'mid  Scamander's  reeds, 
Borrow  thy  beauty :  six  again,  and  I 
Shall  from  thy  lithesome  adolescence  take 
My  young  St.  George,  my  victor  knight,  and  make 
Beneath  thy  sword  once  more  the  Dragon  die ! 

XI. 

"Art  thou  not  mine?  and  wilt  thou  not  repay 
My  love  with  help  unconsciously  bestowed? 
In  thy  fresh  being,  in  its  bright  abode, 
Shall  I  not  find  my  morning-star,  my  day  ? 
Rejoice !  one  life,  at  least,  shall  deathless  be,  — 
One  perfect  form  grow  ripe,  but  not  decay : 
Through  mine  own  blood  shall  I  my  triumph  see, 
And  give  to  glory  what  I  steal  from  thee !  " 


THE    CHILD.  125 

XII. 

But  soon  assailed  my  home  the  need  of  gold, 
The  miserable  wants  that  plague  and  fret, 
Repeated  ever,  battling  with  our  hold 
On  all  immortal  aims,  lest,  over-bold 
In  arrogance  of  gift,  we  dare  forget 
The  balanced  curse :  ah  me  !  that  finest  powers 
Must  stoop  to  menial  services,  and  set 
Their  growth  below  the  unlaborious  flowers ! 

XIII. 

The  precious  few,  whose  voice  of  praise  instructs 
The  ignorant  world,  were  silent,  I  unknown: 
My  love  had  spurned  the  pathway  that  conducts 
To  those  warm  gardens  where  success  is  grown, 
And  where  the  plant,  at  first  so  doubtful,  frail, 
Strengthens  apace  and  shoots  above  the  pale : 
Upon  that  barren  soil  I  stood  alone, 
And  withered  fast,  —  for  what  could  love  avail  ? 


126  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.   JOHN. 

XIV. 

One  day,  in  indolence  of  sheer  despair, 
I  sat  with  hanging  arm,  the  colors  dried 
Upon  my  palette :    sudden,  at  my  side 
Knelt  Clelia,  lifting  through  her  falling  hair 
A  look  that  stabbed  me  with  its  tearful  care ; 
And  words  that  came  like  swiftly-dropping  tears 
Made  my  heart  ache  and  shiver  in  mine  ears, 
As  thus  in  sorrow  and  in  love  she  cried : 

xv. 

"  0  Egon,  mine  the  fault !    I  should  have  dared 
Defy  the  compact,  —  should  have  set  you,  love, 
As  far  in  station  as  in  soul  above 
These  mocking  wants  —  mine  idle  fortune  shared 
With  your  achievement!    Coward  heart,  that  fled 
The  post  of  righteous  battle,  and  prepared 
For  you,  whose  hand  and  brain  I  could  not  wed, 
Meaning  to  bless,  a  martyrdom  instead ! 


THE    CHILD.  127 

XVI. 

"  I  hold  you  back,  alas !  when  you  aspire ; 
I  chain  your  spirit  when  it  pants  to  soar: 
I,  proud  to  kindle,  glad  to  feed  the  fire, 
But  heap  cold  ashes  on  its  fading  core ! 
Command  me,  Egon  !  shall  I  seek  the  sire 
Whose  lonely  house  might  welcome  me  once  more, 
And  mine  —  my  twain  beloved  ?    Let  me  make 
This  late,  last  trial  for  our  future's  sake ! " 

XVII. 

Then  ceased  her  plea,  but  tears,  more  touching,  filled 

The  gap  of  silence.     Out  of  regions  black 

Wherein  my  fancy  drifted  as  it  willed 

And  drew  its  hopeless  pictures,  speeding  back, 

This  added  woe  a  final  courage  gave: 

Her  words,  even  while  they  smote,  a  force  instilled 

That  stung  my  soul  to  action  prompt  and  brave  — 

And  I  stood  up,  no  more  a  yielding  slave ! 


128  THE    PICTURE    OP    ST.  JOHN. 

XVIII. 

"  Not  thine,  my  Clelia ! "  soothing  her,  I  said, 
"  Not  thine  the  fault  —  nor  ours ;  but  Demons  wait 
To  thwart  the  shining  purposes  of  Fate, 
And  not  a  crown  descends  on  any  head 
Ere  half  its  fairest  leaves  are  plucked  or  dead: 
Yet  be  it  as  thou  wilt,  —  who  bore  thee  thence 
Must  in  thy  father's  house  thee  reinstate, 
Or  bear  —  not  thou  —  the  weight  of  his  offence. 

XIX. 

"  Come,  thou  art  pale,  and  sad,  and  sick  for  home, 

My  summer  lily  —  nursling  of  the  sun ! 

But  thou  shalt  blossom  in  the  breeze  of  Rome, 

And  dip  thy  feet  in  Baise's  whispering  foam, 

And  in  the  torn  Abruzzi  valleys,  dun 

With  August  stubble,  watch  thy  wild  fawn  run, — 

I  swear  it !     With  the  melting  of  the  snow, 

If  Fortune  or  if  Ruin  guide,  we  go ! " 


THE    CHILD.  129 

XX. 

And  soon  there  came,  as  'twere  an  answering  hint 
From  heaven,  the  tardy  gold  Madonna  brought,  — 
But  I  unto  that  end  had  gladly  wrought 
Heart's-blood  to  coin,  and  drained  the  ruddy  mint 
Of  life,  again  the  mellow  songs  to  hear 
That  told  how  sunward  turned  her  happy  thought : 
That  sang  to  sleep  her  soul's  unbodied  fear, 
And  led  her  through  the  darkness  of  the  year! 

XXI. 

Alas!  'twas  not  so  written.     Day  by  day 

Her  cheek  grew  thin,  her  footstep  faint  and  slow; 

And  yet  so  fondly,  with  such  hopeful  play 

Her  pulses  beat,  they  masked  the  coming  woe. 

Joy  dwelt  with  her,  and  in  her  eager  breath 

His  cymbals  drowned  the  hollow  drums  of  Death : 

Life  showered  its  promise,  surer  to  betray, 

And  the  false  Future  crumbled  fast  away.    - 
6* 


130  THE   PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXII. 

Ay,  she  was  happy!     God  be  thanked  for  this, 
That  she  was  happy !  —  happier  than  she  knew, 
Had  even  the  hope  that  cheated  her  been  true  ; 
For  from  her  face  there  beamed  such  wondrous  bliss, 
As  cannot  find  fulfilment  here,  and  dies. 
God's  peace  and  pardon  touched  me  in  her  kiss, 
Heaven's  morning  dawned  and  brightened  in  her  eyes, 
And  o'er  the  Tuscan  arched  remoter  skies ! 

XXIII. 

Dazzled  with  light,  I  could  not  see  the  close 
So  near  and  dark,  and  every  day  that  won 
Some  warmer  life  from  the  returning  sun, 
Took  from  the  menaces  that  interpose 
Between  the  plan  and  deed.     I  dared  to  dream 
Her  dreams,  and  paint  them  lovelier  as  they  rose, 
Till  from  the  echoing  hollows  one  wild  stream 
Sprang  to  proclaim  the  melting  of  the  snows. 


THE    CHILD.  131 

XXIV. 

Then  —  how  she  smiled!    And  I  the  casement  wide 
To  that  triumphant  sound  must  throw,  despite 
The  bitter  air ;  and,  soothed  and  satisfied, 
She  slept  until  the  middle  watch  of  night. 
I  watched  beside  her :  dim  the  taper's  light 
Before  the  corner-shrine,  —  the  walls  in  shade 
Glimmered,  but  through  the  window  all  was  white 
In  crystal  moonshine,  and  the  winds  were  laid. 

XXV. 

And  awe  and  shuddering  fell  upon  my  soul. 
Out  of  the  silence  came,  if  not  a  sound, 
The  sense  of  sphery  music,  far,  profound, 
As  Earth,  revolving  on  her  moveless  pole, 
Might  breathe  to  God:   and  at  the  casement  shone 
Something  —  a  radiant  bird  it  seemed,  —  alone, 
And  beautiful,  and  strange  :  its  plumes  around 
Played  the  soft  fire  of  stars  whence  it  had  flown. 


132  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXVI. 

A  silver  beak,  a  diamond  eye,  —  dispread 
The  hovering  wings,  as  winnowing  music  out ; 
And  richer  still  the  glory  grew  about 
The  shadowy  room,  crept  over  Clelia's  bed 
And  hung,  a  shimmering  circle,  round  her  head: 
Then  marked  I  that  her  eyes  were  wide  and  clear, 
Nor  wondered  at  the  vision.     All  my  fear 
Fled  when  she  spoke,  and  these  the  words  she  said : 

XXVII. 

"Thou  call'st,  and  I  am  ready.     Ah,  I  see 

The  shining  field  of  lilies  in  the  moon, 

So  white,  so  fair!    Yet  how  depart  with  thee, 

And  leave  the  bliss  of  threefold  life  so  soon  ? 

Peace,  fainting  heart !    Though  sweet  it  were  to  stay, 

Sweet  messenger,  thy  summons  I  obey: 

And  now  the  mountains  part,  and  now  the  free 

Wide  ocean  gleams  beneath  a  golden  day ! 


THE    CHILD.  133 

XXVIII. 

"How  still  they  lie,  the  olive-sandalled  slopes, 
The  gardens  and  the  towers!    But  floating  o'er 
Their  shaded  sleep,  lo !  some  diviner  shore, 
Deep  down  the  bright,  unmeasured  distance,  opes 
Its  breathing  valleys :  wait  for  me  !    I  haste, 
But  am  not  free :  till  morning  let  me  taste 
The  last  regret  of  faithful  love  once  more, 
Then  shall  I  walk  with  thee  yon  lilied  floor!" 

XXIX. 

The  bright  Thing  fled,  the  moon  went  down  the  west. 

Long  lay  she  silent,  sleepless ;  nor  might  I 

Break  with  a  sound  the  hush  of  ecstasy, 

The  strange,  unearthly  peace,  till  from  his  rest 

The  child  awoke  with  soft,  imploring  cry : 

Then  she,  with  feeble  hands  outreaching,  laid 

His  little  cheek  to  hers,  and  softly  made 

His  murmurs  cease  upon  her  mother-breast. 


134  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 


My  trance  dissolved  at  once,  and  falling  prone 

In  agony  of  tears,  as  falls  a  wave 

With  choked  susurrus  in  some  hollow  cave, 

Brake  forth  my  life's  lament  and  bitter  moan. 

I  shook  with  passionate  grief:  I  murmured:  "Stay! 

Have  I  not  sworn  to  give  thee  back  thine  own  ? 

False  was  the  token,  false  !  "     She  answered  :  "  Nay, 

It  says,  Farewell !   and  yonder  dawns  the  day." 

XXXI. 

No  more !    I  said  farewell :  withdrawn  afar, 
Still  faintly  came  to  me,  its  clasping  shore, 
When  morning  drowned  the  wintry  morning-star, 
Her  ebbing  life  ;  then  paused  —  and  came  no  more ! 
And  blue  the  mocking  sky,  and  loud  the  roar 
Of  loosened  waters,  leaping  down  the  glen  : 
The  songs  of  children  and  the  shouts  of  men 
Flouted  the  awful  Shadow  at  my  door! 


THE    CHILD.  135 

XXXII. 

And  chill  my  heart  became,  a  sepulchre 

Sealed  with  the  sudden  ice  of  frozen  tears : 

I  sat  in  stony  calm,  and  looked  at  her, 

Flown  in  the  brightness  of  her  beauteous  years, 

And  not  a  pulse  with  conscious  sorrow  beat ; 

Nor,  when  they  robed  her  in  her  winding-sheet, 

Did  any  pang  my  silent  bosom  stir, 

But  pain,  like  bliss,  seemed  of  the  things  that  were. 

xxxni. 

With  cold  and  changeless  face  beside  her  grave 
I  stood,  and  coldly  heard  the  shuddering  sound 
Of  coffin-echoes,  smothered  underground: 
The  tints  I  marked,  the  mournful  mountains  gave, — 
Faces  and  garments  of  the  throngs  around, — 
The  sexton's  knotted  hands,  the  light  and  shade 
That  strangely  through  the  moving  colors  played, — 
So,  feeling  dead,  Art's  habit  held  me  bound ! 


136  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXXIV. 

My  body  moved  in  its  mechanic  course 

Of  soulless  functions :  thought  and  passion  ceased, 

Or  blindly  stirred  with  undirected  force, — • 

A  weary  trance,  which  only  Time  decreased 

By  slow  reductions ;  though  the  blunted  sense 

Sought  in  its  loss  of  grief  a  new  remorse, 

(As  love  lay  dead  in  blank  indifference,) 

And  courted  pain,  to  draw  some  comfort  thence  ! 

XXXV. 

Yet,  very  slowly,  Feeling's  self  was  born 
Of  chance  forgetfulness :  when  meadows  took 
A  greener  hem  along  the  winding  brook, 
And  buds  were  balmy  in  the  fresh  May-morn, 
Oft  would  I  turn,  as  though  her  step  to  wait; 
Or  ask  the  songless  echoes  why  so  late 
Her  song  delayed;  or  from  my  lonely  bed 
At  midnight  start,  and  weep  to  find  her  fled ! 


THE    CHILD.  137 

XXXVI. 

And  with  the  pains  of  healing  came  a  care 
For  him,  her  child :  she  had  not  wholly  died  ; 
And  what  of  her  lost  being  he  might  wear 
"Was  doubly  mine  through  all  the  years  untried, 
To  love,  and  give  me  love.     Him  would  I  bear 
Beyond  the  Alps,  forth  from  this  fatal  zone, 
To  make  his  mother's  land  and  speech  his  own, 
And  keep  her  beauty  at  his  father's  side ! 

XXXVII. 

So  forth  we  fared :  the  faithful  peasant  nurse 
"Who  guarded  now  his  life,  should  guard  it  still. 
We  hastened  on :  there  seemed  a  brooding  curse 
Upon  the  valley.     Many  a  brawling  rill 
We  left  behind,  and  many  a  darksome  hill, 
Long  fens,  and  clay-white  rivers  of  the  plain, 
Then  mountains  clad  in  thunder,  —  and  again 
Soared  the  high  Alps,  and  sparkled,  white  and  chill 


138  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXXVIII. 

To  seek  some  quiet,  southward-opening  vale 
Beside  the  Adige,  was  my  first  design ; 
And  sweetly  hailed  along  the  Brenner's  line 
With  songs  of  Tyrol,  welcomed  by  the  gale 
That  floated  from  the  musky  slopes  of  vine, 
With  summer  on  its  wings,  I  wandered  down 
To  fix  our  home  in  some  delightful  town,  — 
But  when  the  first  we  reached,  there  came  a  sign, 

XXXIX. 

The  bells  were  tolling,  —  not  with  nuptial  joy, 
But  heavily,  sadly :  down  the  winding  street 
The  pattering  tumult  came  of  children's  feet, 
Followed  by  men  who  bore  a  snow-pale  boy 
Upon  a  flowery  bier.     The  sunshine  clung, 
Caressing  brow  and  choek,  —  he  was  so  young 
Even  Nature  felt  her  darling's  loss,  —  and  sweet 
The  burial  hymn  by  childish  mourners  sung. 


THE    CHILD.  139 

XL. 

"  He  must  not  see  the  dead ! "    Thus  unto  me 
The  nurse,  and  muffled  him  with  trembling  hand. 
But  something  touched,  in  that  sad  harmony, 
The  infant's  soul :    he  struggled  and  was  free 
A  moment,  saw  the  dead,  nor  could  withstand 
The  strange  desire  that  hungered  in  his  eye, 
And  stretched  his  little  arms,  and  made  a  cry,  — 
While  she,  in  foolish  terror,  turned  to  me : 

XLI. 

"  Now,  God  have  mercy,  master !   rest  not  here, 
Or  he  will  die ! "    'T  was  but  the  causeless  whim 
Of  ignorance,  and  yet,  a  formless  fear 
O'ercame  my  heart,  and  darkly  menaced  him 
As  with  his  mother's  fond,  foreboding  dread : 
Then,  wild  with  haste  to  lift  the  shadow  dim 
Which  seemed  already  settling  round  his  head. 
That  hour  we  left,  and  ever  southward  sped. 


140  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XLII. 

Past  wondrous  mountains,  peaked  with  obelisks, 
With  pyramids  and  domes  of  dolomite 
That  burned  vermilion  in  the  dying  light,  — 
Crags  where  the  hunter  with  a  thousand  risks 
The  steinbok  follows,  —  world  of  strength  and  song 
Under  the  stars,  among  the  fields  of  white, 
While  deep  below,  the  broad  vale  winds  along 
Through  corn  and  wine,  secure   from  winter's  wrong! 

XLIII. 

And  when  we  came  where,  over  gay  arcades, 
The  towers  of  old  Tridentum  pierce  the  air, 
I  breathed  the  fascination  which  pervades 
The  bright  approaches  to  a  region,  fair 
With  Art  whose  equal  grace  and  glory  falls 
Like  dew  or  sun,  —  around  me  everywhere 
The  forms  of  free  Arcadian  festivals, 
The  lovely  speech,  the  blossom-tinted  walls ! 


THE    CHILD.  141 

XLIV. 

My  plan  complete,  the  foolish  servitress 
Back  to  her  dark  Bohemian  home  I  sent, 
And  gave  my  boy  to  one  whose  gentleness 
Fell  gentlier  from  her  Tuscan  tongue.     We  went 
By  lonely  roads,  where  over  Garda's  lake 
Their  brows  the  cloven-hearted  mountains  bent, 
To  lands  divine,  where  Como's  waters  make 
Twin  arms,  to  clasp  them  for  their  beauty's  sake ! 

XLV. 

There  ceased  my  wanderings,   finding  what  I  sought: 
The  charms  of  water,  earth,  and  air  allied,  — 
Secluded  homes,  with  prospects  free  and  wide 
Around  a  princely  world,  which  thither  brought 
Only  the  aspect  of  its  holiday, 
And  made  its  emulous,  unsleeping  pride 
Put  on  the  yoke  of  Nature,  and  obey 
Her  mood  of  ornament,  her  summer  play. 


142  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XL  VI. 

The  shapely  hills,  whose  summits  towered  remote 
In  rosy  air,  might  smile  in  soft  disdain 
Of  palaces  that  strung  a  jewelled  chain 
About  their  feet,  and  far-off,  seemed  to  float 
On  violet-misted  waters ;  yet  they  wore 
Their  groves  and  gardens  like  a  festal  train, 
And  in  the  mirror  of  the  crystal  plain 
Steep  vied  with  steep,  shore  emulated  shore! 

XLVII. 

Above  Bellagio,  on  the  ridge  that  leans 
To  meet,  on  either  side,  the  parted  blue, 
There  is  a  cottage,  which  the  olive  screens 
From  sight  of  those  who  come  the  pomp  to  view 
Of  Villa  Serbelloni :  thrust  apart 
Beside  a  quarry  whence  the  pile  they  drew,  — 
A  home  for  simple  needs  and  straitened  means, 
For  lonely  labor  and  a  brooding  heart. 


THE    CHILD.  143 

XL  VIII. 

There  housed,  the  restful  quiet  for  a  time 
Like  a  delicious  opiate  soothed  my  sense. 
Each  sight  and  sound  of  that  recovered  clime 
Infused  my  life  in  balmy  indolence, 
That  blunted  pain,  nor  gave  a  bliss  too  keen : 
And,  one  by  one,  fell  off  each  weak  defence 
Of  Sorrow,  melted  Memory's  icy  rime, 
And  Hope  discovered  that  her  buds  were  green. 

XLIX. 

Too  young  was  I,  too  filled  with  blood  and  fire, 
To  clothe  myself  with  ultimate  despair. 
Drinking  with  eager  breast  that  idle  air, 
Color  with  eyes  new-bathed,  that  could  not  tire, 
And  stung  by  form,  and  wooed  by  moving  grace, 
And  warmed  with  beauty,  should  I  not  aspire 
My  misty  dreams  with  substance  to  replace, 
Nor  ghosts  beget,  but  an  immortal  race? 


144  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

L. 

Yea !  rather  close,  as  in  a  sainted  shrine, 
My  life's  most  lovely,  tender  episode, 
Renounce  the  ordination  it  bestowed, 
And  only  taste  its  sacramental  wine 
In  those  brief  Sabbaths,  when  the  heart  demands 
Solemn  repose  and  sustenance  divine ! 
Yet  lives  the  Artist  in  these  restless  hands, 
And  waiting,  here,  the  rich  material  stands ! 

LI. 

My  thoughts,  reacting  from  their  former  height, 
And  of  their  old  impatience  sadly  healed, 
Abjured  the  rapture  of  the  starry  flight 
And  turned,  in  penance,  to  the  lowliest  field : 
Yet  lo !  the  forms  of  this  extreme  revealed 
Mysterious  meaning,  unimagined  worth 
Of  lines  and  tints,  clear  shadow,  living  light,  — 
The  key  of  Art,  rusting  in  common  earth  ! 


THE    CHILD.  145 

LIT. 

Had  I  not  sought,  I  asked  myself,  the  far 
Result,  and  haughtily  disdained  the  source? 
From  myriad  threads  hangs  many-stranded  Force, — 
Compact  of  gloomy  atoms,  burns  the  star ! 
Of  earth  are  all  foundations ;  and  of  old 
On  mounds  of  clay  were  lifted  to  their  place 
Shafts  of  eternal  temples.     We  behold 
The  noble  end,  whereto  no  means  are  base. 

LHI. 

Let  me  begin,  I  said,  this  alphabet, 
These  runes  of  Art,  profusely  scattered  o'er 
The  quarry,  vineyard,  garden,  cliff,  and  shore, 
Diffused  in  air,  upon  the  water  set 
In  bloom  and  sparkle,  —  that  my  pencil  yet 
Through  lower  cunning  climb  along  the  scale 
Of  things,  achieving  higher :  't  were  less  regret, 

Heroic  failure,  —  but  I  shall  not  fail ! 

7  j 


146  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LIV. 

I  loved  my  work.     The  pencil's  broader  play 
Had  grown  an  appetite,  wherewith  I  toyed 
Until  my  petted  hand  would  scarce  obey 
This  new  compulsion.     Labor  unenjoyed, 
Save  by  the  flattered  will,  with  every  day 
Demands  new  courage,  resolution  fresh, 
The  old,  seductive  longings  to  allay, 
That  sting  the  spirit,  as  its  lust  the  flesh. 

LV. 

I  loved  my  work ;  and  therefore  vowed  to  love 
All  subjects,  finding  Art  in  everything,  — 
The  angel's  plumage  in  the  bird's  plain  wing, — 
Until  such  time  as  I  might  rise  above 
The  conquered  matter,  to  the  power  supreme 
Which  takes,  rejects,  adorns,  —  a  rightful  king, 
Whose  hand  completes  the  subtly-hinted  scheme, 
And  blends  in  equal  truth  the  Fact  and  Dream ! 


THE    CHILD.  147 

LVI. 

And  now  commenced  a  second  life,  wherein 
Myself  and  Agatha  and  Angelo 
Beheld  the  lonely  seasons  come  and  go, 
Contented,  —  whether  gray  with  hoar-frost  thin 
The  aloes  stiffened,  or  the  passion-flower 
Enriched  the  summer  heats,  or  autumn  shower 
Rejoiced  the  yellow  fig-leaves  wide  to  blow :  — 
So  still  that  life,  we  scarcely  felt  its  flow. 

LVII. 

How  guileless,  sweet,  the  infancy  he  knew, 
Loved  for  his  own  and  for  his  mother's  sake ! 
How  fresh  in  sunny  loveliness  he  grew, 
Fanned  by  the  breezes  of  the  Larian  lake, 
My  little  Angelo,  my  baby-friend, 
My  boy,  my  blessing !  —  while  for  him  I  drew 
A  thousand  futures,  brightening  to  the  end; 
Long  paths  of  light,  with  ne'er  a  cloudy  break ! 


148  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LVIII. 

For,  lisping  in  a  sweeter  tongue  than  mine, 
'Twas  his  delight  around  the  spot  to  play 
Where  fast  I  wrought  in  unillusive  day,  — 
"Where  he  might  chase  from  rock  or  rustling  vine 
The  golden  lizard ;  seek  the  mellow  peach, 
Wind-shaken ;  or,  where  spread  the  branchy  pine 
His  coverture  of  woven  shade  and  shine, 
Sleep,  lulled  by  murmurs  of  the  pebbly  beach. 

LIX. 

Along  San  Primo's  chestnut-shaded  sides, 
Through  fields  of  thyme  and  spiky  lavender 
And  yellow  broom,  wherein  the  she-goat  hides 
Her  yeanling  kid,  and  wild  bees  ever  stir 
The  drifted  blossoms,  —  high  and  breezy  downs,  — 
I  led  his  steps,  and  watched  his  young  eye  glance 
In  brightening  wonder  o'er  the  fair  expanse 
Of  mountain,  lake,  and  lake-reflected  towns! 


THE    CHILD.  149 

LX. 

Or,  crossing  to  the  lofty  Leccan  shore, 
I  bade  him  see  the  Fiume-latte  leap 
Through  shivered  rainbows  down  the  hollow  steep, 
A  meteor  of  the  morning;  high  and  hoar 
The  Alp  that  fed  it  leaned  against  the  blue,  — 
But  siren-voices  chanted  in  the  roar, 
Enticing,  mocking :  shudderingly  he  drew 
Back  from  the  shifting  whirls  of  endless  dew. 

LXI. 

'Twas  otherwise,  when  borne  in  dancing  bark 
Across  the  wave,  where  Sommariva's  walls 
Flash  from  the  starred  magnolia's  breathing  dark, 
High  o'er  its  terraced  roses,  fountain-falls 
And  bosky  laurels.     In  that  garden  he 
Chirruped  and  fluttered  like  a  callow  lark, 
With  dim  fore-feeling  of  the  azure  free, 
Sustaining  wing  and  strength  of  songful  glee ! 


150  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXII. 

That  pomp  of  leafy  beauty  he  would  greet 

As  't  were  his  own  transmitted  heritage : 

He  looked  a  pride  beyond  his  tender  age, 

A  lordly  spirit  moved  his  little  feet,  — 

Whereat  I  smiled,  and  thought :  perchance  't  is  meet 

Pandolfo's  blood  repairs  its  tarnished  claim, 

But  mine,  erelong,  shall  yet  more  proudly  beat, 

To  make  him  heritor  of  fresher  fame. 

LXIII. 

No  thing  that  I  might  paint,  —  a  sunset  cloud, 
A  rosy  islet  of  the  amber  sky,  — 
A  lily-branch,  —  the  azure-emerald  dye 
Of  neck  and  crest  that  makes  the  peacock  proud,  — 
Or  plume  of  fern,  or  berried  ivy-braid, 
Or  sheen  of  sliding  waters,  —  e'er  could  vie 
With  the  least  loveliness  his  form  conveyed 
In  outline,  motion,  daintiest  light  and  shade. 


THE    CHILD.  151 

LXIV. 

Not  yet  would  I  indulge  the  rapturous  task, 
The  crown  of  labor ;  though  my  weary  brain 
Ached  from  the  mimicry  of  Nature's  mask, 
And  yearned  for  human  themes.     It  was  in  vain, 
My  vow,  that  patient  bondage  to  sustain: 
Some  unsubdued  desire  began  to  ask  : 
"  How  shall  these  soulless  images  be  warmed  ? 
Or  Life  be  learned  from  matter  uninformed  ? " 

LXV. 

"  Then  Life  !  "  I  said :  "  but  cautiously  and  slow,  — 
Pure  human  types,  that,  from  the  common  base 
By  due  degrees  the  spirit  find  its  place, 
And  climb  to  passion  and  supernal  glow 
Of  Heaven's  beatitude.     The  level  track 
Once  let  me  tread,  nor  need  to  stoop  so  low 
Beneath  my  dreams,  and  thus  their  hope  efface, — 
But  late,  in  nobler  guise,  receive  them  back." 


152  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXVI. 

So,  venturing  no  further,  I  began 
The  work  I  craved,  and  only  what  I  found 
In  limber  child,  or  steely-sinewed  man, 
Or  supple  maiden,  drew:  within  that  bound 
Such  excellence  I  saw,  as  told  how  much, 
Despising  truth,  I  strayed:  with  reverent  touch 
God's  architecture  did  my  pencil  trace 
In  joint  and  limb,  as  in  the  godlike  face. 

LXVII. 

Each  part  expressed  its  nicely-measured  share 
In  the  mysterious  being  of  the  whole : 
Not  from  the  eye  or  lip  looked  forth  the  soul, 
But  made  her  habitation  everywhere 
Within  the  bounds  of  flesh ;  and  Art  might  steal, 
As  once,  of  old,  her  purest  triumphs  there. 
Go  see  the  headless  Ilioneus  kneel, 
And  thou  the  torso's  agony  shalt  feel  ! 


THE    CHILD.  153 

LXVIII. 

The  blameless  spirit  of  a  lofty  aim 
Sees  not  a  line  that  asks  to  be  concealed 
By  dexterous  evasion ;  but,  revealed 
As  truth  demands,  doth  Nature  smite  with  shame 
Them,  who  with  artifice  of  ivy-leaf 
Unsex  the  splendid  loins,  or  shrink  the  frame 
From  life's  pure  honesty,  as  shrinks  a  thief, 
While  stands  a  hero  ignorant  of  blame ! 

LXIX. 

What  joy  it  was,  from  dead  material  forms, 
Opaque,  one-featured,  and  unchangeable, 
To  turn,  and  track  the  shifting  life  that  warms 
The  shape  of  Man !  —  within  whose  texture  dwell 
Uncounted  lines  of  beauty,  tints  unguessed 
On  luminous  height,  in  softly-shaded  dell, 
And  myriad  postures,  moving  or  at  rest. — 
All  phases  fair,  and  each,  in  turn,  the  best ! 
7* 


154  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXX. 

The  rich  ideal  promise  these  convey, 

Which  in  the  forms  of  Earth  can  never  live. 

Each  plastic  soul  has  yet  the  power  to  give 

A  separate  model  to  its  subject  clay, 

And  finely  works  its  cunning  likeness  out: 

To  men  a  block,  to  me  a  statue  lay 

In  each,  distinct  in  being,  draped  about 

With  mystery,  touched  with  Beauty's  random  ray ! 

LXXI. 

Now  Fame  approached,  when  I  expected  least 
Her  noisy  greeting :  't  was  the  olden  tale. 
Half-scornfully  I  gave ;  yet  men  increased 
Their  golden  worth,  the  more  I  felt  them  fail, 
My  painful  counterfeits  of  lifeless  things. 
"  Behold  !  "  they  cried  :  "  this  wondrous  artist  brings 
Each  leaf  and  vein  of  meadow-blossoms  pale, 
The  agate's  streaks,  the  meal  of  mothy  wings ! " 


THE    CHILD.  155 

LXXIT. 

And  truly,  o'er  a  wayside-weed  they  raised 

A  sound  of  marvel,  found  in  lichen-rust 

Of  ancient  stones  a  glory,  stood  amazed 

To  view  a  melon,  gray  with  summer  dust, 

And  so  these  rudimental  labors  praised, 

The  Tempter  whispered  to  my  flattered  ear: 

"  Why  seek  the  unattained,  —  thy  fame  is  here  !  " 

"  Avaunt !  "  I  cried  :  "  in  mine  own  soul  I  trust !  " 

LXXIII. 

A  little  while,  I  thought,  and  I  shall  know 
The  stamp  and  sentence  of  my  destiny,  — 
The  fateful  crisis,  whence  my  life  shall  be 
A  power,  a  triumph,  an  immortal  show, 
A  kindling  inspiration  :  or  be  classed 
(As  many  a  noble  brother  in  the  Past) 
Pictor  Ignotus :  as  it  happens,  so 
Shall  turn  the  fortunes  of  my  Angelo ! 


156  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXIV. 

For  in  his  childish  life,  expanding  now, 
The  spirit  dawned  which  must  his  future  guide,  — 
The  little  prattler,  with  his  open  brow, 
His  clear,  dark  eye,  his  mouth  too  sweet  for  pride, 
Too  proud  for  infancy!     "My  boy,  decide," 
I  said :  "  wilt  painter  be  ?  or  rather  lord 
Over  a  marble  house,  a  steed  and  sword?" 
His  visage  flashed :  he  paused  not,  but  replied : 

LXXV. 

"Give  me  a  marble  house,  as  white  and  tall 
As  Sommariva's !     Give  me  horse  and  hound, 
A  golden  sword,  and  servants  in  the  hall, 
And  thou  and  I  be  masters  over  all, 
My  father ! "     In  that  hope  a  joy  he  found, 
And  oft  in  freaks  of  fancied  lordship  made 
The  splendors  his :  ah,  boy !  thy  wish  betrayed 
The  blood  that  beats  to  rise,  and  dare  not  fall. 


THE    CHILD.  157 

LXXVI. 

Did  Clelia's  spirit  yearn,  what  time  she  bore 
The  unborn  burden,  for  her  lost  estate? 
Home-sick  and  pining,  lorn  and  desolate 
Except  for  love,  did  she,  in  thought,  count  o'er 
The  graceful  charms  of  that  luxurious  nest 
Wherefrom  I  stole  her?     Then  was  I  unblest, 
Save  he  inherited  her  pilfered  fate, 
And  trod,  for  her,  Pandolfo's  palace-floor.' 

LXXVII. 

This  to  achieve,  which  duty  to  the  dead 
Had  made  a  haunting  conscience,  now  became 
An  added  sting  to  goad  me  on  to  fame, 
And  beckoned  still,  as  by  his  cradle-bed, 
But  fairer,  many  a  clear,  inspiring  dream 
Of  noble  pictures,  from  his  beauty  drawn  : 
His  fortune's  instrument  should  be  the  theme 
Himself  must  give,  —  the  young,  divine  St.  John  ! 


158  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXVIII. 

* 
The  current  of  my  dreams,  directed  thus, 

Flowed  ever  swifter,  evermore  to  him. 

Along  the  coves  where  stripling  boatmen  swim 

I  watched  him  oft,  like  Morn's  young  Genius, 

Dropped  from  her  rose-cloud  on  the  silver  sand, 

Her  rosy  breath  upon  each  ivory  limb 

Kissed  by  the  clasping  waters,  green  and  dim, 

And  craved  the  hour  when  he  should  bless  my  hand. 

LXXIX. 

Meanwhile,  until  his  round  and  dimpling  grace 
Put  on  the  dainty  slenderness  that  lies 
In  youth,  and  fuller  soul  inform  his  face, 
Unweariedly  I  wrought,  Murillo-wise, 
On  idle  groups  of  tawny  peasant-boys, — 
The  coarser  wild-weeds  of  his  garden-race,  — 
In  the  fine  postures  which  they  improvise, 
And  mellow  tints,  held  in  harmonious  poise. 


THE    CHILD.  159 

LXXX. 

ftr 

The  seasons  came  and  went.     In  sun  or  frost 
Twinkled  the  olive,  shook  the  aspen  bough : 
In  winter  whiteness  shone  Legnone's  brow, 
Or  cooled  his  fiery  rocks  in  skyey  blue 
When  o'er  the  ruffled  lake  the  breva  tossed 
The  struggling  barks:  their  cups  of  snow  and  dew 
The  dark  magnolias  held,  and  purpling  poured 
The  trampled  blood  from  many  a  vineyard's  hoard. 

LXXXI. 

Five  years  had  passed,  and  now  the  time  was  nigh 
When  on  the  fond  result  my  hand  must  stake 
Its  cunning,  —  when  the  slowly-tutored  eye 
Must  lend  the  heart  its  discipline,  to  make 
Secure  the  throbbing  hope,  to  which,  elate, 
My  long  ambition  clung :  and,  with  a  sigh, 
"  If  foiled,"  I  said,  "  let  silence  consecrate 
My  noteless  name,  and  hide  my  ruined  fate  ! " 


160  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXXII. 

It  was  an  autumn  morn,  when  I  addressed 
Myself  unto  the  work.     A  violet  haze 
Subdued  the  ardor  of  the  golden  days : 
A  glassy  solitude  was  Como's  breast : 
Far,  far  away,  from  out  the  fading  maze 
Of  mountains,  blew  the  flickering  sound  of  bells : 
The  earth  lay  hushed  as  in  a  Sabbath  rest, 
And  from  the  air  came  voiceless,  sweet  farewells ! 

LXXXIII. 

My  choicest  colors,  on  the  palette  spread, 
Provoked  the  appetite :  the  canvas  clear 

if 

Wooed  from  the  easel :   o'er  his  noble  head 

The  faint  light  fell :  his  perfect  body  shed 

A  sunny  whiteness  on  the  atmosphere,  — 

All  aspects  gladsomely  invited :  yet 

Across  my  heart  there  swept  a  wave  of  dread,  — 

The  first  lines  trembled  which  my  crayon  set. 


THE    CHILD.  161 

LXXXIV. 

The  background,  lightly  sketched,  revealed  a  wild 

Storm-shadowed  sweep  of  Ammon's  desert  hills, 

Whose  naked  porphyry  no  dew-fed  rills 

Touched  with  descending  green,  but  rent  and  piled 

As  thunder-split :  behind  them,  glimmering  low, 

The  falling  sky  disclosed  a  lurid  bar : 

In  front,  a  rocky  platform,  where,  a  star 

Of  lonely  life,  I  meant  his  form  should  glow. 

LXXXV. 

The  God-selected  child,  there  should  he  stand, 

Alone  and  rapt,  as  from  the  world  withdrawn 

To  seek,  amid  the  desolated  land, 

His  Father's  counsel :  in  one  tender  hand 

A  cross  of  reed,  to  lightly  rest  upon, 

The  other  hand  a  scrolled  phylactery 

Should,  hanging,  hold,  —  as  it  the  seed  might  be 

Wherefrom  the  living  Gospel  shall  expand. 


.  . 

162  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXXVI. 

A  simple  theme :  why,  therefore,  should  my  faith 
In  mine  own  skill  forsake  me  ?   why  should  seem 
His  beauteous  presence  strangely  like  a  dream,  — 
His  shining  form  an  unsubstantial  wraith  ? 
Was  it  the  mother's  warning,  thus  impressed 
To  stay  my  hand,  or,  working  in  my  breast, 
That  dim,  dread  Power,  that  monitor  supreme, 
Whose  mystic  ways  and  works  no  Scripture  saith? 

LXXXVII. 

I  dropped  the  brush,  and,  to  assure  my  heart, 
Now  vanquished  quite,  with  quick,  impassioned  start 
Caught  up  the  boy,  and  kissed  him  o'er  and  o'er,  — 
Cheek,  bosom,  limbs,  —  and  felt  his  pulses  beat 
Secure  existence,  till  my  dread,  dispelled, 
Became  a  thing  to  smile  at :  then,  once  more 
My  hand  regained  its  craft,  and  followed  fleet 
The  living  lines  my  filmless  eyes  beheld. 


THE    CHILD.  163 

LXXXVIII. 

And  won  those  lines,  and  tracked  the  subtle  play 
Where  cold,  keen  light,  without  a  boundary, 
Through  warmth,  lapsed  into  shadow's  mystic  gray, 
And  other  light  within  that  shadow  lay, 
A  maze  of  beauty,  —  till,  outwearied,  he 
With  drooping  eyelid  stood  and  tottering  knee ; 
While  I,  withdrawn  to  gaze,  with  eager  lip 
Murmured  my  joy  in  mine^  own  workmanship. 

LXXXIX. 

I  clothed  his  limbs  again,  and  led  him  out 
To  welcome  sunshine  and  his  glad  reward, 
A  scarlet  belt,  a  tiny,  gilded  sword,  — 
And  long  our  bark,  the  sleeping  shores  about 
Sped  as  we  willed,  that  happy  afternoon : 
And  sweet  the  evening  promise  (ah !  too  soon 
It  came,)  of  what  the  morrow  should  afford, — 
An  equal  service  and  an  equal  boon ! 


164  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XC. 

But  on  the  pier  a  messenger  I  found 
From  Milan,  where  the  borrowed  name  I  bore 
Was  known,  he  said,  and  more  than  half-renowned; 
And  now  a  bright  occasion  offered  me 
A  fairer  crown  than  yet  my  forehead  wore, — 
A  range  of  palace-chambers  to  adorn 
With  sportive  frescoes,  nymphs  of  Earth  and  Sea, 
Pursuing  Hours,  and  marches  of  the  Morn ! 

xci. 

They  might  be  mine,  he  urged,  unless  I  shrank, 
Too  proud  or  timid  to  assert  my  claim. 
Men  called  me  shy ;  but  here  neglect  were  shame,  — 
Shame  to  repel,  not  take,  a  nobler  rank. 
So,  half  in  sadness,  half  in  hope,  I  gave 
The  word  he  sought,  and  followed  whence  he  came ; 
And  my  St.  John,  upon  the  fading  bank, 
Answered  my  farewell  signal  from  the  wave. 


THE    CHILD.  165 

XCII. 

It  steads  not  now  that  journey  to  repeat, 
Which  flattered,  toyed,  but  nothing  sure  bestowed. 
When  four  unrestful  days  were  sped,  my  feet, 
With  yearning  shod,  retraced  the  homeward  road, 
With  each  glad  minute  nearing  our  retreat, — 
Mine  eyes,  when  far  away  Bellagio  showed 
Beyond  Tremezzo,  straining  to  explore 
Some  speck  of  welcome  on  the  distant  shore. 

XCIII. 

Then  came  the  town,  the  vineyards  and  the  hill, 
The  cottage :  soft  the  orange  sunset  shone 
Upon  its  walls,  —  but  everything  was  still, 
So  still  and  strange,  my  heart  might  well  disown 
The  startled  sense  that  gazed :   the  door  ajar,  — 
The  chambers  vacant,  —  ashes  on  the  stone 
Where  lit  his  torch  my  shy,  protecting  Lar, — 
Dark,  empty,  lifeless  all:   I  stood  alone! 


166  THE   PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XCIV. 

As  one  who  in  an  ancient  forest  walks 
In  awful  midnight,  when  the  moon  is  dim, 
And  knows  not  What  behind,  or  near  him,  stalks, 
And  fears  the  rustling  leaf,  the  snapping  limb, 
And  cannot  cry,  and  scarce  can  breathe,  so  great 
The  nameless  Terror,  —  thus  I  sought  for  him, 
Yet  feared  to  find  him,  lest  the  darkest  fate 
Should  touch  my  life  and  leave  it  desolate ! 

xcv. 

The  search  was  vain:  they  both  had  disappeared, 
My  boy  and  Agatha,  nor  missed  I  aught 
Of  food,  or  gold,  or  pictures.     Had  she  sought, 
The  nurse,  a  livelier  home,  and  loved  or  feared 
Too  much,  to  leave  him  ?    Or  some  enemy, 
Fell  and  implacable,  this  ruin  brought,  — 
This  thunder-stroke?    No  answer  could  I  see, 
Nor  prop  whereon  to  rest  my  anguished  thought. 


THE    CHILD.  16T 

XCVI. 

Vain,  too,  were  all  my  questions :  none  could  say 
When,  how,  or  whither  flew  my  bird  away : 
No  boat  received,  no  peasant's  cart  conveyed 
The  fugitives ;  nor  had  a  cry  been  heard 
From  the  near  vineyard  or  the  olive  shade,  — 
Yet  they  had  gone  and  left  the  air  unstirred 
With  any  echo,  and  the  earth  unpressed 
With  any  track  to  guide  me  in  my  quest ! 

xcvn. 

As  casts  away  a  drowning  man  his  gold, 
I  cast  the  Artist  from  my  life,  and  forth, 
A  Father  only,  wandered :  south  or  north 
I  knew  not,  save  the  heart  within  me  hold 
Love's  faithful  needle,  ever  towards  him  drawn, 
Felt  and  obeyed  without  the  conscious  will : 
And  first,  by  nestling  town  and  purple  hill, 
To  Garda's  lake  I  swiftly  hastened  on. 


168  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.   JOHN. 

XCVIII. 

And  thence  a  new,  mysterious  impulse  led 
My  steps  along  the  Adige,  day  by  day, 
To  seek  that  village  where  we  saw  the  dead,  — 
A  fantasy  wherein  some  madness  lay ; 
For  years  had  passed,  and  he  a  babe  so  young 
That  each  impression  with  its  object  fled : 
Not  so  with  mine,  —  my  roused  forebodings  flung 
That  scene  to  light,  and  there  insanely  clung. 

xcix. 

I  found  the  village,  but  its  people  knew 
No  tidings :  wearily  awhile  I  trod 
Among  black  crosses  in  the  churchyard  sod, 
But  who  could  guess  the  boy's  ?  and  why  pursue 
A  sickly  fancy  ?    In  that  peopled  vale 
Death  is  not  rare,  alas !  nor  burials  few, 
And  soon  the  grassy  coverlet  of  God 
Spreads  equal  green  above  their  ashes  pale. 


THE    CHILD.  169 

C. 

'Twas  eve:  upon  a  lonely  mound  I  sank 
That  held  no  more  its  votive  immortelles, 
And,  over-worn  and  half-despairing,  drank 
The  vesper  pity  of  the  distant  bells, 
Till  sleep  or  trance  descended,  and  my  brain 
Forgot  its  echoes  of  eternal  knells, 
Effaced  its  ceaseless  images  of  pain, 
And,  blank  and  helpless,  knew  repose  again. 

ci. 

I  dreamed,  —  or  was  it  dream  ?    My  Angelo 
Called  somewhere  out  of  distant  space :  I  heard, 
Like  faint  but  clearest  music,  every  word. 
"  Come,  father,  come ! "  he  said :  "  it  shines  like  snow, 
My  house  of  marble :  I  've  a  speaking  bird : 
A  thousand  roses  in  my  garden  grow: 
My  fountains  fall  in  basins  dark  as  wine : 
Come  to  me,  father,  —  all  is  yours  and  mine!" 


170  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

CII. 

And  then,  one  fleeting  moment,  blew  aside 
The  hovering  mist  of  Sleep,  and  I  could  trace 
The  phantom  beauty  of  his  joyous  face ; 
And,  whitely  glimmering,  o'er  him  I  espied 
A  marble  porch  of  stern  Palladian  grace,  — 
Then  faded  all.     The  rest  my  heart  supplied : 
Pandolfo's  palace  on  my  vision  broke : 
"  I  come  ! "  I  cried ;  and  with  the  cry  awoke. 


V 

THE 


PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN 


BOOK    IV. 


BOOK    IV. 


THE    PICTURE. 

I. 

A    S  when  a  traveller,  whose  journey  lies 

In  some  still  valley,  slowly  wanders  on 
By  brook  and  meadow,  cottage,  bower,  and  lawn, — 
Familiar  sights,  that  charm  his  level  eyes 
For  many  a  league,  until,  with  late  surprise 
He  starts  to  find  those  gentle  regions  gone, 
And  through  the  narrowing  dell,  whose  crags  enclose 
His  path,  irresolutely,  sadly  goes : 


174  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

II. 

For  what  may  wait  beyond,  he  cannot  guess, 
A  garden  or  a  desert,  —  in  such  wise 
I  went,  in  ignorance  that  mocked  the  guise 
Of  hope,  and  filled  me  with  obscure  distress. 
Locked  in  a  pass  of  doubt,  whose  cliffs  concealed 
The  coming  life,  the  temper  of  the  skies, 
I  craved  the  certain  day,  that  soon  should  rise 
Upon  a  fortunate  or  fatal  field ! 

in. 

The  House  of  Life  hath  many  chambers.     He 
Who  deems  his  mansion  built,  a  dreamer  vain, 
A  tottering  shell  inhabits,  and  shall  see 
The  ruthless  years  hurl  down  his  masonry; 
While  they  who  plan  but  as  they  slowly  gain, 
Where  that  which  was  gives  that  which  is  to  be 
Its  form  and  symbols,  build  the  house  divine, — 
In  life  a  temple,  and  in  death  a  shrine! 


THE    PICTURE.  175 

IV. 

Too  fast  had  mine  ambition  built:  too  sure 
The  structure  stood  upon  its  treacherous  base. 
One  blast  had  levelled  what  I  thought  secure, 
Nor  could  the  gathered  fragments  e'er  replace 
The  first  fair  edifice.     My  peaceful  Past 
Was  closed  and  sealed :  and  forth  my  life  was  cast 
To  breast  the  heady  tides,  the  shocks  endure 
Of  jostling  aims,  yet  hold  its  fortune  fast. 

v. 

And  following  as  the  guiding  vision  led, 

With  briefest  rest,  with  never-faltering  feet, 

By  highways  white,  through  field  or  chattering  street 

Or  windy  gorges  of  the  hills  I  sped, 

And  crossed  the  level  floors  of  silk  and  wine, 

The  slow  canals,  and,  shrunken  in  their  bed, 

The  sandy  rivers,  till  the  welcome  line 

Before  me  rose  of  Tuscan  Apennine. 


176  THE    PICTUEE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

VI. 

The  southern  slopes,  with  shout  and  festal  song, 
Rejoiced  in  vintage :   as  I  wandered  by, 
Came  faun-like  figures,  purple  to  the  thigh 
From  foaming  vats,  and  laughing  women,  strong 
To  bear  their  Bacchic  loads :  then,  towards  the  town 
Through  blended  toil  and  revel  hastening  down, 
I  saw  the  terrace  —  saw,  and  checked  a  cry,  — 
Whence  Clelia  flung  to  me  the  jasmine  crown  ! 

VII. 

Alas !  how  changed  from  him  that  wreath  who  wore, 
The  youth  all  rapture,  hope  and  sense  uncloyed, 
New-landed  on  the  world's  illumined  shore, — 
Walked  now  the  man !    My  downward  path  before 
There  sprang  no  arch  of  triumph  from  the  void : 
No  censers  burned:  not  as  a  conqueror 
I  entered  Florence,  —  no !   a  slave,  that  fed 
On  one  last  fragment  of  the  feast  I  spread. 


THE    PICTURE.  177 

VIII. 

There  stretched  the  garden-wall :   the  yellow  sun 
Above  it  burnished  every  cypress  spire, 
Tipped  the  tall  laurel-clumps  with  points  of  fire, 
And  smote  the  palace-marbles  till  they  won 
The  golden  gleam  of  ages.     Yet,  above 
That  mellow  splendor  stood  the  beauty  flown 
Of  midnights,  when  around  it  blew  and  shone 
The  breeze  of  Passion  and  the  moon  of  Love ! 

IX. 

At  last  —  the  door  !     With  trembling  touch  I  tried 
The  latch :  it  shook :  the  rusty  bolts  gave  way. 
As  in  a  dream  the  roses  I  espied, 
Heard  as  in  dreams  the  fountain's  lulling  play. 
There  curled  the  dolphins  in  the  shining  shower 
And  rode  the  Triton  boys  :  on  either  side 
The  turf  was  diapered  with  many  a  flower,  — 
And  darkling  drooped  our  green  betrothal  bower. 

8*  L 


178  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

X. 

Scarce  had  I  entered,  when  there  came  a  sound 

Of  voices  from  the  pillared  portico, — 

And  twofold  burst  a  cry,  as  Angelo, 

Across  the  paths,  with  wildly-joyous  bound 

Sprang  to  my  bosom :  while,  as  one  astound 

With  sense  of  some  unexpiated  wrong, 

The  nurse  entreated :  "  Bid  thy  father  go  !  " 

But  "  Stay !  "  he  cried  :  "  where  hast  thou  been  so  long?  " 

XI. 

"  Stay,  father !  thou  shalt  paint  me  as  thou  wilt, 
Each  morning,  in  the  silent  northern  hall; 
But  when,  so  tired,  thou  seest  mine  eyelids  fall, 
Then  shall  I  take  my  sword  with  golden  hilt, 
And  call  the  grooms,  and  bid  them  saddle  straight 
For  us  the  two  white  horses  in  the  stall  —  " 
Here  shrieked  the  nurse,  with  face  of  evil  fate, 
"  Go,  Signer,  go  !  —  ah,  God  !  too  late,  —  too  late !  " 


THE    PICTURE.  179 

XII. 

His  haste  dividing,  him  to  clasp  I  knelt 
Twixt  porch  and  fountain,  blind  with  tearful  joy 
As  on  my  breast  his  beating  heart  I  felt, 
And  on  my  mouth  the  kisses  of  the  boy, 
Wherein  his  mother's  phantom  kisses  poured 
A  stream  of  ancient  rapture,  love  restored, — 
When,  like  the  lightning  ere  the  stroke  is  dealt, 
Before  me  flashed  the  old  Marchese's  sword! 

XIII. 

So  haggard,  sunken-eyed,  convulsed  with  wrath 

That  paints  a  devil  on  the  face  of  age, 

He  glared,  that,  quick  to  shield  my  child  from  scath,  — 

To  fly  the  menace  of  unreasoning  rage,  — 

I  caught  him  in  my  cloak,  and  dashed  apart 

The  tangled  roses  of  the  garden-path : 

Pandolfo  —  hate  such  fatal  swiftness  hath  — 

Leapt  in  advance,  and  thrust  to  pierce  my  heart! 


180      „  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XIV. 

I  saw  the  flame-like  sparkle  of  the  blade : 
Heard,  sharp  and  shrill,  the  nurse's  fearful  cry: 
Warm  blood  gushed  o'er  my  hands  :  a  fluttering  sigh 
Came  from  the  childish  lips,  that  feebly  made 
These  words,  as  prompted  by  the  darkening  eye, 
"  Good  night,  my  father ! "     And  I  knew  not  why 
My  boy  should  sleep,  so  suddenly  and  so  well,  — 
But  trembling  seized  me :  clasping  him,  I  fell. 

xv. 

Nor  loosed  my  hold,  although  I  dimly  knew 
Pandolfo's  hand  let  fall  the  blade  accurst, 
And  he,  his  race's  hoary  murderer,  burst 
The  awful  stillness  that  around  us  grew, 
With  miserable  groans :  his  prostrate  head 
Touched  mine,  as  helpless,  o'er  the  fading  dead, — 
His  hands  met  mine,  and  both  as  gently  nursed 
The  limbs,  and  strove  to  stay  the  warmth  that  fled. 


THE    PICTURE.  181 

XVI. 

His  Past,  my  Future,  in  the  body  met,  — 
His  wrongs,  my  hopes,  —  the  selfsame  fatal  blow 
Dashed  into  darkness :  blood  Lethe'an  wet 
My  blighted  summer,  his  autumnal  snow, 
And  all  of  Life  did  either  life  forget, 
Except  the  piteous  death  between  us :  so, 
Together  pressed,  involved  in  half-embrace, 
We  hung  above  the  cold,  angelic  face. 

XVII. 

"  Her  father,  why  should  Heaven  direct  thy  hand 
Against  her  child,  thy  blood,  chastising  thee?" 
"I  loved  the  boy  — "     "But  couldst  not  pardon  me, 
His  father  ?  "    "  Nay,  but  thou  thyself  hadst  banned 
Beyond  forgiveness ! "    "  Even  at  his  demand  ?  " 
"  Ah,  no !  for  his  sweet  sake  might  all  things  be, 
Except  to  lose  him."     "  He  is  lost,  —  and  we 
(Thou,  too,  old  man!)  are  childless  in  the  land!" 


182  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN 

XVIII. 

Thus  brokenly,  scarce  knowing  what  we  said, 
We  clung  like  drowning  men  beneath  the  wave, 
That  nor  can  hurt  each  other,  nor  can  save, 
But  breast  to  breast  with  iron  arms  are  wed 
Till  Death  so  leaves  them.     Us  the  servants  led  — 
Pale,  awe-struck  helpers  —  through  the  palace-door 
And  glimmering  halls,  to  lay  on  Clelia's  bed 
The  broken  lily  we  together  bore. 

XIX. 

God's  thunder-stroke  his  haughty  heart  had  bowed : 
It  bled  with  mine  among  the  common  dust 
Where  Rank  puts  on  the  sackcloth  of  the  crowd, 
And  sits  in  equal  woe :  his  guilt  avowed, 
And  mine,  there  came  a  sad,  remorseful  trust, 
And  while  the  double  midnight  gathered  there 
From  sable  hangings  and  the  starless  air, 
We  held  each  other's  hands,  and  wept  aloud. 


THE    PICTURE.  183 

XX. 

And  he  confessed,  how,  after  weary  search 
And  many  a  vain  device  employed,  he  found 
By  chance  in  Zara,  on  Dalmatian  ground, 
As  altar-piece  within  a  votive  church 
Some  shipwrecked  Plutus  built,  —  the  Mother  mild 
In  whose  foreboding  face  my  Clelia  smiled; 
And  thence,  by  slow  degrees,  to  Como's  side 
Had  followed  home  the  trail  I  thought  to  hide. 

XXI. 

And  there  had  seized  me,  but  the  boy  displayed 
Patrician  beauty,  and  the  failing  line, 
Now  trembling  o'er  extinction,  might  evade 
Its  fate  in  him.     This  changed  the  first  design, 
And  what  the  sordid  nurse  for  gold  betrayed 
Or  those  Art-hucksters  chattered,  easy  made 
The  rape,  whose  issue  should,  with  even  blow, 
Revenge  and  compensate  :  but  now,  —  ah,  woe ! 


184  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXII. 

The  issue  had  been  reached :  too  dark  and  drear, 
Too  tragic,  pitiful,  and  heart-forlorn, 
Could  any  heart  contain  it,  to  be  borne,  — 
And  mine  refused,  rebelled.     Behind  his  bier 
No  meek-eyed  Resignation  walked,   or  Grief 
That  catches  sunshine  in  each  falling  tear 
To  build  her  pious  rainbow :    but  with  scorn 
I  thrust  aside  the  truths  that  bring  relief. 

XXIII. 

I  spurned,  though  kindly,  —  for  the  old  man's  frame 
Stumbled  in  Death's  advancing  twilight,  —  all 
His  offers  :  gold  —  the  proud  Pandolfan  hall  — 
Place,  that  should  goad  the  lagging  feet  of  Fame  — 
And  from  his  sombre  palace,  shuddering  still, 
Cold  with  remembered  horror,  took  my  name, 
My  own,  restored ;  and  climbed  the  northern  hill 
As  one  who  lives,  though  dead  his  living  will. 


THE    PICTURE.  185 

XXIV. 

Some  habit ,  working  in  my  passive  feet, 
Its  guidance  gave :  the  mornings  came  and  went : 
Around  me  spread  the  fields,  or  closed  the  street, 
And  often,  Night's  expanded  firmament 
Opened  above  the  lesser  dome  of  Day, 
And  wild,  tumultuous  tongues  of  darkness  sent 
To  vex  my  path,  —  till,  in  our  old  retreat, 

I  ceased  to  hold  my  reckless  heart  at  bay ! 
& 

XXV. 

I  had  not  known  how  dear,  how  close-entwined 
His  lovely  life :  but  now  the  knowledge  brought 
A  sting  to  torture  sick,  dismembered  thought, 
And,  reaching  through  the  heart  to  taint  the  mind, 
Infected  all  my  being.     Sorrow  stirred 
The  springs  of  Evil,  and  my  fancy  sought 

In  aims  reversed,  perverted  act  and  word, 

••, 

The  laws  of  this  misgoverned  life  to  find. 


186  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXVI. 

Some  natures  are  there,  fashioned  ere  their  birth 
For  sun,  and  spring-time,  and  the  bliss  of  earth ; 
Who  only  sing,  achieve,  and  triumph,  when 
The  Hours  caress,  and  each  bright  circumstance 
Leaps  to  its  place,  as  in  a  starry  dance, 
To  shape  their  story.     These  the  fortunate  men, 
When  Fate  consents,  whose  lives  are  ever  young, 
And  shine  around  whate'er  they  wrought  or  sung ! 

* 

XXVII. 

Akin  to  these  am  I,  —  or  deemed  it  so, 

And  thus  beyond  my  present  wreck  beheld 

No  far-off  rescue.     All  my  mind,  impelled 

By  some  blind  wrath  that  would  resent  the  blow, 

Though  impotent,  caught  action  from  despair, 

And  reached,  and  groped,  —  as  when  a  man  lets  go 

A  jewel  in  the  dark,  and  seeks  it  where 

The  furzes  prick  him  and  the  brambles  tear. 


THE    PICTURE.  187 

XXVIII. 

The  clash  of  inconsistent  qualities 
No  labor  stayed,  or  beauteous  passion  smoothed, 
But  each  let  loose,  and  grasping,  by  degrees, 
Sole  sway,  made  chaos.   -Turbulent,  unsoothed 
By  either  's  rule,  —  since  order  failed  therein, 
And  hope,  the  tidal  star  of  restless  seas,  — 
I  turned  from  every  height,  once  fair  to  win, 
And  sinned  'gainst  Art  the  one  unpardoned  sin! 

XXIX. 

For  thus  I  reasoned:  what  avail  my  gifts, 
Which  but  attract,  provoke  the  spoiling  Fate  ?  — 
Nor  for  themselves  their  destinies  create, 
But  task  my  life ;  and  then  the  thunder  rifts 
Their  laid  foundations  !     Why  of  finer  nerve 
The  members  doomed  to  bear  more  cruel  weight? 
Or  daintier  senses,  if  they  only  serve 
To  double  pangs,  already  doubly  great  ? 


188  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXX. 

Lo !  yonder  hind,  on  whom  doth  Life  impose 
So  slight  a  burden,  finds  his  path  prepared ; 
Unthinking  fares  as  all  his  fathers  fared, 
And  cheap-won  joys  and  soon-subsiding  woes 
Nor  cleave  his  heart  too  deep,  nor  lift  too  high. 
Peaceful  as  dew-mist  from  an  evening  sky 
The  years  descend,  until  they  bid  him  close 
Upon  an  easy  world  a  quiet  eye  ! 

XXXI. 

He  sees  the  shell  of  Earth  —  no  more :  yet  more 
Were  useless,  —  attributes  of  thankful  toil ; 
The  olive  orchards,  dark  with  ripening  oil ; 
The  misty  grapes,  the  harvests,  tawny-hoar ; 
The  glossy  melons,  swelling  from  the  vine ; 
The  breezy  lake,  alive  with  darting  spoil; 
And  dances  woo  from  yonder  purple  shore, 
And  yonder  Alps  but  cool  his  summer  wine ! 


THE    PICTURE.  189 

XXXII. 

He  lives  the  common  life  of  Earth :  she  grants 

Result  to  instinct,  food  to  appetite : 

With  no  repressed  desire  his  bosom  pants, 

Nor  that  self-torturing,  questioning  inward  sight 

Vexes  his  light,  unconscious  consciousness. 

He  loves,  and  multiplies  his  life,  —  no  less 

His  virile  pride  and  fatherly  delight ; 

And  all  that  smites  me,  visits  him  to  bless. 

XXXIII. 

If  this  the  law,  that  narrower  powers  enjoy 

Their  use,  denied  the  greater,  —  nay,  are  nursed 

And  helped,  while  these  their  energies  destroy 

In  baffled  aspirations,  crossed  and  cursed 

By  what  with  brightening  promise  lured  them  on,  — 

Then  life  is  false,  its  purposes  reversed, 

Its  luck  for  those  who  leave  its  veils  undrawn, 

And  Art  the  mocking  glory  of  its  dawn ! 


190  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XXXIV. 

"What  help,  that  oft  a  shining  avenue 
Opens  behind  the  grave,  and  down  through  time, 
Self-builded,  bears  a  name  that  seems  sublime  ? 
That  laurel  shoots,  where  only  nightshade  grew? 
Far  happier  he,  whose  breathing  day  is  rife 
With  restful  peace,  —  to  whom  existence  brings 
Joy  in  itself,  and  in  the  range  of  things, 
And,  leaf  by  leaf,  unfolds  the  flower  of  Life ! 

XXXV. 

Not  calmly,  as  my  memory  now  recalls 

The  crisis,  —  fierce,  vehemently,  I  tracked 

The  fatal  truth  through  every  potent  fact 

Of  being ;  now  in  fancied  carnivals 

Of  sense  abiding,  now  with  gloomy  face 

Fronting  the  deeper  question  that  appalls, 

Of  "  Wherefore  Life  ?  and  what  this  brawling  race, 

Peopling  a  mote  of  dust  in  endless  space  ? " 


THE    PICTURE.  191 

XXXVI. 

«0  fools!"  I  cried,  "O  fools,  a  thousand-fold 
Tormented  with  your  folly,  seeking  good 
Where  Good  is  not,  nor  Evil !  —  words  that  hold 
Your  natures  captive,  making  ye  the  food 
And  spoil  of  them  that  dare,  with  vision  bold, 
See  Nothingness  !  —  slaves  of  transmitted  fear 
Of  Power  imagined,  never  understood, 
The  Demon  rules  you  still  that  set  you  here! 

XXXVII. 

"  The  masters  they,  who  counterfeit  your  dreams 
And  play  upon  them,  with  a  grand  disdain 
Past  your  detection:  yet  were  knowledge  vain 
To  ye,  whose  pathway  touches  no  extremes, 
And  me,  who  will  not  stoop  to  seek  its  aid, 
But  in  this  solitary  house  of  pain 
Sit  till  I  perish!"     Thus  a  sharper  blade 
Cut  to  the  quick,  and  smarted  unallayed. 


192  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.   JOHN. 

XXXVIII. 

And  as  a  voyager,  whose  birchen  shell 
Shoots  down  a  flashing  rapid,  —  failed  his  course, 
And  spun  and  whirled  around  a  churning  well 
Of  torn,  wild  waters,  —  foldeth  up  the  force 
Of  helpless  arms,  and  waiteth  what  may  come ; 
So  waited  I,  in  scornful  indolence 
That  seemed  awhile  my  misery  to  benumb, 
But  grew,  erelong,  another  aching  sense. 

XXXIX. 

The  curse  I  would  have  broken  bound  me  still. 
As  flowery  chains  aforetime,  fetters  now 
Of  tyrant  Art  subdued  my  wandering  will, 
And  made  its  youthful,  glad,  spontaneous  vow 
An  iron  law,  whence  there  was  no  escape. 
No  rest,  though  hopeless,  would  my  brain  allow, 
But  drew  the  pictures  of  its  haunting  ill, 
And  gave  its  reckless  fancies  hue  and  shape. 


THE    PICTURE.  193 


XL. 


So,  after  many  days,  the  cobwebbed  door 
Creaked  open  :  naught  was  there  displaced ; 
And  first  I  turned,  with  pangs  and  shuddering  haste, 
My  young  St.  John,  —  I  would  not  see  it  more. 
Then  snatched  an  empty  canvas  from  the  floor 
And  drew  a  devil:  therein  did  I  taste 
Fierce  joys  of  liberty,  for  what  I  would 
I  would,  —  Art  was  itself  a  Devilhood  ! 

XLI. 

This  guilty  joy,  the  holiest  to  debase,  — 
To  use  the  cunning,  born  of  pious  toil, 
Each  purest  aspiration  to  assoil, 
And  drag  in  ribaldry  the  pencil's  grace,— 
Grew  by  indulgence.     Forms  and  groups  unclean 
Or  mocking,  faster  than  my  hand  could  trace 
Their  vivid,  branding  features,  thrust  a  screen 
My  restless  woe  and  dead  desire  between. 


9 


194  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XLII. 

Sometimes,  perchance,  a  grim,  sarcastic  freak 
My  pencil  guided,  and  I  stiffly  drew 
Byzantine  saints,  of  flat,  insipid  cheek 
And  monstrous  eye ;  or  some  Madonna  meek, 
With  dwarfish  mouth,  like  those  of  Cimabue  ; 
Or  martyr-figures,  less  of  flesh  than  bone, 
Lean  hands,  and  lips  forever  making  moan, — 
A  travesty  of  woe,  distorted,  weak. 

XLIII. 

Or,  higher  ranging,  touched  the  field  that  charms 
Monastic  painters,  who,  in  vision  warm 
The  Mystery  grasp,  and  wondrous  frescoes  form 
Where  God  the  Father,  with  wide-spreading  arms, 
Rides  on  the  whirlwind  which  His  breath  has  made, 
Or  sows  His  judgments,  Earth  in  darkness  laid 
Beneath  Him,  —  works  which  only  not  blaspheme, 
Because  the  faith  that  wrought  them  was  supreme. 


THE    PICTURE.  195 

XLIV. 

Thus  habit  grew,  imagination  stalked 
In  shameless  hardihood  from  things  profane 
To  sacred :  nothing  hindered,  awed,  or  baulked 
The  appetite  diseased,  and  such  a  plan 
I  sketched,  as  never  since  the  world  began  — 
So  strange  and  mad  —  engendered  any  brain. 
Once  entertained,  the  lovely-loathsome  guest 
Clung  to  my  fancy  and  my  hand  possessed. 

XLV. 

Not  broad  the  canvas,  but  the  shapes  it  showed, 
With  utmost  art  defined,  might  almost  seem 
To  grow  and  spread,  dilating  with  the  theme. 
Filling  the  space,  a  lurid  ocean  glowed 
In  endless  billows,  tipped  with  foam  of  fire, 
Shoreless :  but  far  more  dreadful  than  a  dream 
Of  Hell,  the  shapes  which  in  that  sea  abode, 
TVith  sting  and  fang,  and  scaly  coil  and  spire ! 


196  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XL  VI. 

One  with  a  lizard's  sinuous  motion  slipped 
Forth  from  the  dun  recesses  of  the  wave, 
Man-eyed  and  browed,  but  tusked  and  lipped 
Like  river-horse :  its  claws  another  drave 
Within  a  ghastly  head,  whose  dim  eyes  gave 
Slow  tears  of  blood ;  and  with  a  burning  tongue 
In  brazen  jaws  out-thrust,  another  stripped 
From  floating  bones  the  flesh  that  round  them  clung! 

XL  VII. 

Far-off,  upraised,  appeared  a  crimson  hand, 
Clenched  as  in  agony  upon  a  snake 
That  stung  it  ever:  midway  o'er  the  lake 
Drifted  what  seemed  a  half-extinguished  brand, 
But  those  dull  sparks  were  eyes,  that  rounded  black 
A  woman's  bosom :  flame-red  vultures  fanned 
Their  horny  wings,  and  swam  along  her  track 
A  nameless,  bloated  Thing,  with  warty  back  ! 


THE    PICTURE.  197 

XL  VIII. 

And  in  the  midst,  suspended  from  above 
Just  o'er  the  blazing  foam,  in  light  intense, 
A  naked  youth  —  a  form  of  strength  and  love 
And  beauty,  perfect  as  the  artist's  sense 
Dreams  of  a  god ;  and  every  glorious  limb 
Burned  in  a  glow  that  made  those  billows  dim, 
A  weird  and  awful  brilliance,  coming  whence 
No  eye  might  fathom,  dashed  alone  on  him ! 

XLIX. 

Let  down  from  Somewhere  by  a  mighty  chain 
Linked  round  his  middle,  lightly,  graciously 
He  swung,  and  all  his  body  seemed  to  be 
Compact  of  molten  metal,  such  a  stain 
Of  angry  scarlet  streamed  and  shot  around  : 
The  face  convulsed,  yet  whether  so  with  pain 
Or  awful  joy,  no  gazers  might  agree, 
And  damp  the  crispy  gold  his  brows  that  crowned. 


198  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

L. 

And,  as  he  swung,  all  hybrid  monsters  near, 
Dark  dragon-leech,  huge  vermin  human-faced, 
Their  green  eyes  turned  on  him  with  hideous  leer, 
Or  stretched  abhorrent  tentacles,  to  taste 
His  falling  ripeness.     Through  the  picture  spread 
A  sense  of  tumult,  hinting  to  the  ear 
The  snap  and  crackle  of  those  waters  red, 
And  hiss,  and  howl,  and  bestial  noises  dread. 

LI. 

Unweariedly  I  wrought,  —  each  grim  detail 
As  patient-perfect,  as  from  Denner's  brush, 
Of  hair,  or  mouldy  hide,  or  pliant  mail, 
Or  limbs,  slow-parting,  as  the  grinders  crush 
Their  quivering  fibres :  good  the  workmanship, 
Yet  something  unimagined  seemed  to  fail,  — 
A  crowning  Horror,  in  whose  iron  grip 
The  heart  should  stifle,  bloodless  be  the  lip. 


THE    PICTURE.  199 

LII. 

This  to  invent,  with  hot,  unresting  mind 
I  labored :  early  sat  and  late,  possessed 
With  evil  images,  with  wicked  zest 
To  wreak  my  mood,  though  it  might  curse  my  kind, 
On  Evil's  purest  type,  and  horridest ; 
And  never  young  ambition  heretofore 
In  noble  service  so  itself  outwore. 
What  thus  we  seek,  or  soon  or  late  we  find. 

LIII. 

One  morn  of  winter,  when  unmelted  frost, 
Beneath  a  low-hung  vault  of  moveless  cloud. 
Silvered  the  world,  even  while  my  head  was  bowed 
In  half-despair,  my  brain  the  Horror  crossed, 
Unheralded ;  and  never  human  will 
Achieved  such  fearful  triumph  !     Never  came 
The  form  of  that  which  language  cannot  name, 
So  armed  the  life  of  souls  to  crush  and  kill ! 


200  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LIV. 

And  this  be  never  unto  men  revealed, 
To  curse  by  mere  existence !     Knowledge  taints, 
Drawn  from  such  crypts,  the  whitest  robes  of  saints 
Though  faith  be  firm,  and  warrior-virtue  steeled 
Against  assault,  the  Possible  breaks  in 
Their  borders,  and  the  soul  that  cannot  yield 
Must  needs  receive  the  images  it  paints, 
And  shudder,  sinless,  in  the  air  of  Sin ! 

LV. 

My  blood  runs  chill,  remembering  now  the  laugh 
Wherewith,  enlightened,  I  the  pencil  seized,  — 
Half  deadly-smitten,  fascinated  half, 
Yet  sworn  to  do  the  dreadful  thing  I  pleased ! 
All  things  upheld  my  mood  with  evil  guise : 
The  palette-colors,  to  my  sense  diseased, 
"Winked  wickedly,  like  devils'  slimy  eyes, 
And  darkness  closed  me  from  the  drooping  skies ! 


201 


LVI. 

As  when  a  harp-string  in  a  silent  room 

At  midnight  snaps,  with  weird,  melodious  twang, 

So  suddenly,  through  inner,  outer  gloom 

A  sweet,  sharp  sound,  vibrating  slowly,  rang 

And  sank  to  humming  music  ;   while  a  stream 

Of  gathering  odor  followed,  as  in  dream 

We  braid  the  bliss  of  music  and  perfume,  — 

And  pierced,  I  sat,  with  some  divinest  pang. 

LVII. 

And,  as  from  sound  and  fragrance  born,  a  glow 
All  rosy-golden,  fair  as  Alpine  snow 
At  sunset,  grew,  —  mist-like  at  first,  and  dim, 
But  brightening,  folding  inwards,  fold  on  fold, 
Until  my  ravished  vision  could  behold 
Complete,  each  line  of  sunny-shining  limb 
And  sainted  head,  soft-posed  as  I  had  drawn 

My  boy  —  my  Angelo  —  my  young  St.  John  ! 
9* 


202  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LVIII. 

0  beauteous  ghost !     0  sacred  loveliness  ! 
Unworthy  I  to  look  upon  thy  face, 
Unworthy  thy  transfigured  form  to  trace, 
That  stood,  expectant,  waiting  but  to  bless 
By  miracle,  where  I  intended  crime ! 
The  folded  scroll,  the  shadowy  cross  of  reed 
He  bore,  —  St.  John,  but  not  of  mortal  seed : 
So  God  beheld  him,  in  that  early  time ! 

LIX. 

Dew  came  to  burning  eyes :   a  heavenly  rain, 
A  balmy  deluge,  bathed  my  arid  heart, 
And  washed  that  hateful  fabric  of  the  brain 
To  rot,  a  ruin,  in  some  Hell  of  Art. 
A  sweet,  unquestioning,  obedient  mood 
Made  swift  revulsion  from  the  broken  strain 
Of  my  revolt ;   and  still  the  Phantom  wooed, 
As  bright,  and  wonderful,  and  mute,  it  stood. 


THE    PICTURE.  203 

LX. 

Yet  I,  through  all  dissolving,  trembling  deeps 
Of  consciousness,  his  angel-errand  knew. 
The  guilty  picture  fell,  and  forth  I  drew 
My  dim  St.  John  from  out  the  dusty  heaps, 
And  cleansed  it  first,  and  kissed  in  reverence 
The  shadowy  lips,  —  fresh  colors  took,  and  true, 
And  painted,  while  on  each  awakened  sense 
The  awful  beauty  of  the  Phantom  grew. 

LXI. 

And  grew  the  joy,  past  all  permitted  joys 
Of  flesh  or  spirit,  to  originate 
Immortal  types,  which  no  defect  alloys, 
But  perfect  in  their  godlike  equipoise 
Of  Truth  and  Vision !     Here  we  touch  the  state 
Of  gods  themselves,  and  none  shall  coldly  rate 
What  thus  is  born  of  Beauty's  right  to  be, 
And  being,  stamps  its  own  eternity! 


204  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXII. 

All  hoarded  craft,  all  purposes  and  powers 
Together  worked :  the  scattered  gleams  of  thought 
As  through  a  glass  my  heart  together  brought 
To  light  my  hand :  the  chariots  of  the  Hours 
For  me  were  stayed :   I  knew  not  Earth  nor  Time, 
But  painted  nimbly  in  a  trance  sublime, 
And  tint  by  tint  my  charmed  pencil  caught, 
And  line  by  line,  the  loveliness  it  sought. 

LXIII. 

Mine  eyes  were  purged  from  film :  I  saw  and  fixed 
The  subtle  secrets,  not  with  old  despair 
But  with  undoubting  faith  my  colors  mixed, 
And  with  unfaltering  hand  the  breeze-blown  hair, 
The  dark,  unfathomed  eyes,  the  lips  of  youth, 
The  dainty,  fleeting  grace  that  stands  betwixt 
The  babe  and  child,  in  members  pure  and  bare, 
Portrayed,  with  joy  that  owned  my  pencil's  truth. 


THE    PICTURE.  205 

LXIV. 

And  he,  my  heavenly  model !   how  he  shone, 
Unwearied,  silent,  —  drawn,  a  golden  form, 
Against  the  background  of  a  sky  of  storm, 
On  Ammon's  desert  hills !    The  landscape  lone 
Through  all  its  savage  slopes  and  gorges  smiled, 
Him  to  enframe,  the  God-selected  child, 
And  o'er  the  shadowy  distance  fell  a  gleam 
That  touched  with  promised  peace  its  barren  dream. 

LXV. 

At  last,  the  saffron  clearness  of  the  west. 
From  under  clouds,  shot  forth  elegiac  ray 
That  sang  the  burial  of  the  wondrous  day ; 
And  sad,  mysterious  music  in  my  breast, 
As  at  the  coming,  now  the  close  expressed. 
Ah,  God!    I  dared  not  watch  him  float  away, 
But,  seized  and  shaken  by  the  fading  spell, 
And  covering  up  my  face,  exhausted  fell. 


206  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXVI. 

There,  when  my  beating  heart  no  longer  shook 
The  sense  that  listened,  though  that  music  died, 
A  solemn  Presence  lingered  at  my  side ; 
And  drop  by  drop,  as  forms  an  infant  brook 
Within  a  woodland  hollow,  soft,  unheard, 
And  out  of  nothing  braids  its  slender  tide, 
The  sense  of  speech  the  living  silence  stirred 
And  wordless  sound  became  melodious  word ! 

LXVII. 

No  individual  voice,  the  accents  breathed 
Continuous  message  through  a  sense  unknown ; 
And  whether  he  whose  semblance  Heaven  bequeathed 
To  save  me,  in  angelic  wisdom  grown  — 
The  child  his  father's  teacher  —  comforted; 
Or  on  my  soul,  its  madness  overthrown, 
The  Truth  an  inward  revelation  shed, 
'T  were  vain  to  guess :    I  listened,  and  was  led. 


THE    PICTURE.  207 

LXVIII. 

"O  weak  of  will!"  (so  spake  what  seemed  a  voice) 
"  And  slave  of  sense,  that,  hovering  in  extremes, 
Dost  over-soar,  and  undermine  thy  dreams, 
Behold  the  lowest,  highest !     Make  thy  choice,  — 
Lord  of  the  vile  or  servant  of  the  pure : 
Be  free,  range  all  that  is,  if  better  seems 
Freedom  to  smite  thyself,  than  to  endure 
The  pain  that  worketh  thine  immortal  cure ! 

LXIX. 

"  Lo !  never  any  living  brain  knew  peace, 
That  saw  not,  rooted  in  the  scheme  of  things, 
Assailing  and  protecting  Evil !     Cease 
To  beat  this  steadfast  law  with  bleeding  wings, 
For  know,  that  never  any  living  brain, 
"Which  rested  not  within  its  ordered  plane, 
Restrung  the  harp  of  life  with  sweeter  strings, 
Or  made  new  melodies,  except  of  pain ! 


208  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXX. 

"Where  wast  thou,  when  the  world's  foundations  first 
Were  laid?     Didst  thou  the  azure  tent  unfold? 
Or  bid  the  young  May-morning's  car  of  gold 
Herald  the  seasons?     Wouldst  thou  see  reversed 
The  sacred  order  ?     Why,  if  life  be  cursed, 
Add  to  its  curses  thy  rebellion  bold  ? 
Or  has  thy  finer  wisdom  only  yearned 
For  thankless  gifts  and  recompense  unearned? 

LXXI. 

"  Come,  thou  hast  questioned  God :  I  question  thee. 
And  truly  thou  art  smitten,  —  yet  repress 
Thine  old  impatience:  calm  the  eyes  that  see 
How  blows  give  strength,  and  sharpest  sorrows  bless. 
Free  art  thou:  is  thy  liberty  so  fair 
To  hide  the  ghost  of  vanished  happiness, 
And  sleep'st  thou  sweeter  under  skies,  so  bare 
These  thunder-strokes  were  welcome  to  its  air? 


THE    PICTURE.  209 

LXXII. 

"Why  is  thy  life  so  sorely  smitten?     Wait, 
And  thou  shalt  learn!     Dead  stones  thy  teachers  were: 
Through  years  of  toil  thy  hand  did  minister 
To  joyous  Art:  thou  wast  content  with  Fate. 
Take  now  thy  ruined  passion,  fix  its  date, 
Peruse  its  growth,  and,  if  thou  canst,  replan 
The  blended  facts  of  Life  that  made  thee  man;  — 
Could  aught  be  spared,  or  changed  for  other  state  ? 

LXXHI. 

"  Not  less  thy  breathing  bliss  than  yonder  hind 
Thou  enviest,  but  more:  therein  it  lies, 
That  each  experience  brings  a  twin  surprise, 
As  mirrored  in  the  glad,  creative  mind, 
And  in  the  beating  heart.     Behold !  he  bows 
To  adverse  circumstance,  to  change  and  death; 
But  thou  wouldst  place  thy  fortune  his  beneath, 
Shaming  the  double  glory  on  thy  brows ! 


210*  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXIV. 

"  His  pangs  outworn,  perchance  some  feeling  lives 
For  those  of  others :  thine  the  lordly  power 
Transmuting  all  that  loss  or  suffering  gives 
To  Beauty!     Even  thy  most  despairing  hour 
Some  darker  grace  informs,  and  like  a  bee 
Thine  Art  sits  hoarding  in  thy  Passion's  flower: 
So  vast  thy  need,  no  phase  thine  eye  can  see 
Of  Earth  or  Life,  that  not  enriches  thee ! 

LXXV. 

"  Such  is  the  Artist,  —  drawing  precious  use 
From  every  fate,  and  so  by  laws  divine 
Encompassed,  that  in  glad  obedience  shine 
His  works  the  fairer:  his  the  flag  of  truce 
Between  the  warring  worlds  of  soul  and  sense : 
By  neither  mastered,  holding  both  apart, 
Or  blending  in  a  newer  excellence, 
He  weds  the  haughty  brain  and  yearning  heart. 


THE    PICTURE.  211 

LXXVT. 

"  Beneath  tempestuous,  shifting  movement  laid, 

The  base  of  steadfast  Order  he  beholds, 

And  from  the  central  vortex,  unafraid, 

Marks  how  all  action  evermore  unfolds 

Forth  from  a  point  of  absolute  repose, 

Which  hints  of  God;  and  how,  in  gleams  betrayed, 

The  Perfect  even  in  imperfection  shows, — 

And  Earth  a  bud,  but  breathing  of  the  rose ! 

LXXVII. 

"Whose  feet  are  firm,  although  his  heart  be  tost; 
Who  holds  his  agony  with  steady  hand 
Till  it  be  dumb,  and  dares  his  work  remand, 
Not  weakly  sacrifice,  is  never  lost. 
The  Master  he,  whom  Destiny  obeys, 
Though  seeming  first  to  thwart  the  thing  he  planned; 
And,  whether  men  forget,  condemn,  or  praise, 
He  owns  the  world  and  lives  immortal  days ! " 


212  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXVIII. 

Even  as  the  last  stroke  of  a  Sabbath  bell, 
Heard  in  the  Sabbath  silence  of  a  dell, 
Sounds  on  and  on,  with  fainter,  thinner  note, 
Distincter  ever,  till  its  dying  swell 
Draws  after  it  the  listener's  ear,  to  float 
Farther  and  farther  into  skies  remote, — 
So,  when  what  seemed  a  voice  had  ceased,  the  strain 
Drew  after  it  the  waiting,  listening  brain. 

LXXIX. 

And,  following  far,  my  senses  on  the  track 
Slid  into  darkness.     Dead  to  life,  I  lay 
Plunged  in  oblivious  slumber,  still  and  black, 
All  through  the  night  and  deep  into  the  day: 
Yet  was  it  sleep,  not  trance,  —  restoring  Sleep, 
That  from  the  restless  soul  its  house  of  clay 
Protects ;  and  when  I  woke,  her  dew  so  deep 
Had  drenched,  the  wondrous  Past  was  washed  away. 


THE    PICTURE.  213 

LXXX. 

But  there,  before  me,  its  recorded  gift 
Flashed  from  the  easel,  so  divinely  bright 
It  shamed  the  morning:  then,  returning  swift, 
The  wave  of  Memory  rolled,  and  pure  delight 
Filled  mine  awakening  spirit,  and  I  wept 
With  contrite  heart,  redeemed,  enfranchised  quite: 
My  sick  revolt  was  healed,  —  the  Demon  slept, 
And  God  was  good,  and  Earth  her  promise  kept. 

LXXXI. 

I  wandered  forth ;  and  lo !  the  halcyon  world 
Of  sleeping  wave,  and  velvet-folded  hill, 
And  stainless  air  and  sunshine,  lay  so  still ! 
No  mote  of  vapor  on  the  mountains  curled; 
But  lucid,  gem-like,  blissful,  as  if  sin 
Or  more  than  gentlest  grief  had  never  been, 
Each  lovely  thing,  of  tint  that  shone  impearled, 
As  dwelt  some  dim  beatitude  therein! 


214  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXXII. 

There,  as  I  stood,  the  contadini  came 

With  anxious,  kindly  faces,  seeking  me; 

And  caught  my  hands,  and  called  me  by  my  name, 

As  one  from  danger  snatched  might  welcomed  be. 

Such  had  they  feared,  their  gentle  greeting  told,  — 

Seeing  the  cottage  shut,  the  chimney  free 

Of  that  blue  household  breath,  whose  rings,  unrolled, 

The  sign  of  home,  the  life  of  landscape,  hold. 

LXXXIII. 

So  God's  benignant  hand  directing  wrought, 
And  Man  and  Nature  took  me  back  to  life. 
My  cry  was  hushed:  the  forms  of  child  and  wife 
Smiled  from  a  solemn,  moonlit  land  of  thought, 
A  realm  of  peaceful  sadness.     Sad,  yet  strong, 
My  soul  stood  up,  threw  off  its  robes  of  strife, 
And  quired  anew  the  world-old  human  song,  — 
Accepting  patience  and  forgetting  wrong! 


THE    PICTURE.  215 

LXXXIV. 

Erelong,  my  living  joy  in  Art  returned, 
But  reverently  felt,  and  purified 
By  recognition  of  the  bounty  spurned, 
And  meek  acceptance  in  the  place  of  pride. 
Yet  nevermore  should  brush  of  mine  be  drawn 
O'er  the  unfinished  picture  of  St.  John : 
"What  from  the  lovely  miracle  I  learned, 
The  lines  of  colder  toil  should  never  hide. 

LXXXV. 

Though  incomplete,  it  gave  the  prophecy 
Of  far-off  power,  whereto  my  patient  mind 
Must  set  its  purpose,  —  saying  unto  me  : 
"Make  sure  the  gift,  the  fleeting  fortune  bind, — 
What  once  a  moment  was,  may  ever  be  ! " 
And  when,  in  time,  this  hope  securer  grew, 
Unto  the  picture,  whence  my  truth  I  drew, 
A  sacred  dedication  I  assigned. 


216  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

LXXXVI. 

Pandolfo  dead,  the  body  of  my  child 

Upon  his  mother's  lonely  breast  I  laid, 

A  late  return ;  and  o'er  their  ashes  made 

A  chapel,  in  the  green  Bohemian  wild, 

For  weary  toil,  pure  thought,  and  silent  prayer, — 

A  simple  shrine,  of  all  adornment  bare, 

Save  o'er  the  altar,  where,  completed  now, 

St.  John  looks  down,  with  Heaven  upon  his  brow ! 

LXXXVII. 

The  Past  accepts  no  sacrifice  :  its  gates 
Alike  atonement  and  revenge  out-bar. 
We  take  its  color,  yet  our  spirits  are 
Thrust  forward  by  a  power  which  antedates 
Their  own :  the  hand  of  Art  outreaches  Fate's, 
And  lifts  the  bright,  unrisen,  refracted  star 
Above  our  dark  horizon,  showing  thus 
A  future  to  the  faith  that  fades  in  us. 


THE    PICTURE.  217 

L  XXX  VIII. 

Not  with  that  vanity  of  shallow  minds 
Which  apes  the  speech,  and  shames  the  noble  truth 
Of  them  whose  pride  is  knowledge,  — >  nor  of  Youth 
The  dazzling,  dear  mirage,  that  never  finds 
Itself  o'ertaken,  —  but  with  trust  in  fame, 
As  knowing  fame,  and  owning  now  the  pure 
And  humble  will  which  makes  achievement  sure, 
I,  Egon,  here  the  Artist's  title  claim ! 

L  XXXIX. 

The  forms  of  Earth,  the  masks  of  Life,  I  see, 
Yet  see  wherein  they  fail :  with  eager  eyes 
I  hunt  the  wandering  gleams  of  harmony, 
The  rarer  apparitions  which  surprise 
With  hints  of  Beauty,  fixing  these  alone 
In  wedded  grace  of  form  and  tint  and  tone, 
That  so  the  thing,  transfigured,  shall  arise 

Beyond  itself,  and  truly  live  in  me. 
10 


218  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XC. 

And  I  shall  paint,  discerning  where  the  line 
Wavers  between  the  Human  and  Divine, — 
Nor  to  the  Real  in  servile  bondage  bound, 
Nor  scorning  it:  nor  with  supernal  themes 
Feeding  the  moods  of  o'er-aspiring  dreams, 
(For  mortal  triumph  is  a  god  uncrowned,)  — 
But  by  Proportion  ruled,  and  by  Repose, 
And  by  the  Soul  supreme  whence  they  arose. 

xci. 

Not  clamoring  for  over-human  bliss, 
Yet  now  no  more  unhappy,  —  not  elate 
As  one  exalted  o'er  the  level  state 
Of  these  ungifted  lives,  yet  strong  in  this, 
That  I  the  sharpest  stab  and  sweetest  kiss 
Have  tasted,  suffered,  —  I  can  stand  and  wait, 
Serene  in  knowledge,  in  obedience  free, 
The  only  master  of  my  destiny ! 


THE    PICTURE.  219 

XCII. 

And  thus  as  in  a  clear,  revealing  noon 
I  live.     So  comes,  sometimes,  a  mountain  day: 
A  vague,  uncertain,  misty  morn,  and  soon 
Sharp-smiting  sun,  and  winds'  and  lightning's  play, — 
A  drear  confusion,  by  the  final  crash 
Dispersed,  and  ere  meridian  blown  away ; 
And  all  the  peaks  shine  bare,  the  waters  flash, 
And  Earth  lies  open  to  the  golden  ray! 

xcni. 

Lonely,  perchance,  but  as  these  dark-browed  hills 
Are  lonely,  belted  round  with  broader  spheres 
Of  bluer  world,  my  life  its  hope  of  peace  fulfils 
In  poise  of  soul :  the  long,  laborious  years 
Await  me:  closed  my  holy  task,  I  go 
To  reaccept,  beyond  the  Alpine  snow, 
The  gage  of  glorious  battle  with  my  peers,  — 
Not  each  of  each,  but  of  false  art,  the  foe. 


220  THE    PICTURE    OF    ST.  JOHN. 

XCIV. 

Once  more,  0  lovely,  piteous,  shaping  Past, 
I  kiss  thy  lips :  now  let  thy  face  be  hid, 
And  this  green  turf  above  thy  coffin-lid 
Be  turned  to  violets!    The  forests  cast 
Their  shadowy  arms  across  the  quiet  vale, 
And  all  sweet  sounds  the  coming  rest  foretell, 
And  earth  takes  glory  as  the  sky  grows  pale, 
So  fond  and  beautiful  the  Day's  farewell! 

xcv. 

Farewell,  then,  thou  embosomed  isle  of  peace 
In  restless  waters !     Let  the  years  increase 
With  unexpected  blessing :  thou  shalt  lie 
As  in  her  crystal  shell  the  maiden  lay, 
Watched  o'er  by  weeping  dwarfs,  —  too  fair  to  die, 
Yet  charmed  from  life:  and  there  may  come  a  day 
Which  crowns  Desire  with  gift,  and  Art  with  truth, 
And  Love  with  bliss,  and  Life  with  wiser  youth  ! 


953 
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